


Wayment

by Maunakea



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But Not Anytime Soon, Cannibalism, Forced care, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Quintesson Slavery, Slow Build, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Triggery Content, Twincest, forced carrying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 316,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maunakea/pseuds/Maunakea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not only must Megatron fight his way out of the jaws of hell, he must also convince a half-dead Optimus Prime he has good intentions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Plot

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is a mix of IDW and G1 but mostly IDW. Megatron and Optimus are in their IDW “Chaos Theory” frames.
> 
> Some details in this story are inspired by two very awesome stories (with permission given to use their ideas):  
> [ "Long Nights" ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1179970/chapters/2406106) by Borath, and [ “Enemy” ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4424114) by Bibliotecaria_D 
> 
>  
> 
> The carrying phases closely follow the carrying described in Borath's story and the nature of the Quintessons (and especially their control methods) are inspired by Bibliotecaria's story. Both of them are incredible works of art so definitely check them out! :D 
> 
> Note: Please feel free to leave me honest-to-god concrit, I love all feedback as it makes me a better writer. :)
> 
>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS. I am adding this warning because I feel like the tags aren't enough.** This story can get pretty damned dark and relentless, even though it does have a happy ending. Any story with cannibalism, slavery, torture, forced carrying, character death, etc, is going to have some seriously dark, angsty themes. **Please venture in with eyes open.** I completely understand if dark themes are not your thing, but this story has a lot of it as per the tags. If you are just here for cuddles, that would be the last few chapters (chapter 19 and onward) and I'd skip every other chapter, seriously. I just don't want anyone upset, my stuff is intense, so please consider yourself warned.
> 
> ………………………………………………..  
> Klik = 1 second  
> Astro-second = 1 minute  
> Breem = 8.3 minutes  
> Joor = 1 hour  
> Cycle = 12 hours  
> Mega-cycle = 93 hours (roughly four days)  
> Deca-cycle = 3 weeks  
> Micron = tiny fraction of space/inch  
> ………………………………………………..

**TWO YEARS AGO**

_“And that’s why, deep down, you’re glad for this war. What’s a few million fatalities if it secures your legacy, eh?”_

_Megatron’s vocalizer cut through the room, harsh and calculating. The warlord was taunting him again, intentionally driving their conversation into darker, more familiar waters._

_Optimus’ servos hovered over the control panel, sorely tempted to punish the mech dangling in the variable voltage harness for his vile sentiments. Instead, he pulled his hand back and dropped it –still tightly clenched– to his sides._

_Someone had to start the peace process._

_Optimus Prime refused to rise to the bait. Something in their last exchange was different. Something about Megatron felt different…this last death and resurrection had changed him._

_Megatron sounded tired; his tirades felt forced and empty. He was ready for change… ready for their war to end._

_Optimus was certain of it._

_He stepped closer, bringing his frame intimately near and extended his electromagnetic fields to lightly overlay the other mech. "Tell me you want it to end, and it will end." His field was proof of his sincerity; he meant every word. He would find a way._

_Megatron considered his counterpart for a long moment as if weighing all the possibilities and then something within him seemed to crumble._

_“So be it, Prime.” The murmur was earnest, the intent seemed… honest._

_“Let us end this wretched war.”_

 

**ONE YEAR AGO**

Cybertron’s sun dipped past the horizon as Optimus Prime exited the lift and strode down the beautifully decorated corridor. The fading sunlight still glinted through the immense skylights above, a selling feature of the expensive flats of this massive high-rise. The skyscape on display promised a spectacular sunset, but he doubted he would be enjoying it tonight.

Optimus steeled himself as he walked towards Megatron’s temporary quarters. His rival remained free from Autobot custody after Optimus had released him from his restraints to help defend Cybertron from D-Void.

 _That was one hell of a fight_ , he reminisced as he walked. They had faced down the encroaching darkness together, and the battle and aftermath had cemented their alliance, reinforcing their commitment to a peaceful Cybertron.

Afterward, in the interests of peace, both leaders had officially stood down as rulers of their respective factions. Starscream handled the Decepticon side, while Ultra Magnus functioned as the acting leader of the Autobots. The progress they had made towards peace was amazing, although the process was not without the occasional snags; hence his visit tonight.

Optimus stood outside the penthouse door for several astro-seconds while mentally preparing for the coming encounter. Then he tapped the intercom to request entry.

Megatron keyed open the door and then stepped back in surprise. “Prime,” he said in greeting, noting the data pad in his visitor’s servos. He regarded his old enemy with curiosity while motioning for him to enter.

 _Primus, but he looks impressive._ Optimus found himself taken back by the sheer size of Megatron's new armature.

Megatron stood a full helm’s length higher than him now, his heavier body sleek and aerodynamic. The frame held a different shape; a black and purple chassis with a stealth jet alt mode… but the face plate remained the same. _His_ face always remained the same.

 _A sense of death deferred_ …

Optimus had once described Megatron as such to Rodimus. And yet, here they were, standing across from each other in the midst of honest peace negotiations. Accustomed to being the same height, the difference in their frames still startled him.

“We need to talk,” Optimus said while meeting Megatron’s probing red optics. He stepped inside the spacious quarters with his shoulders squared, even though he didn’t feel particularly confident.

Megatron noted his unease but merely gestured for him to follow.

The entertaining room dominated the primary living space, set off by massive windows. They showcased a beautiful view of the city, which was currently being rebuilt at a breakneck pace. The quick reclamation and steady restoration of the metropolis was a source of pride, with many of the shattered buildings showing signs of repair.

Over half of them were even powered and alight; the glowing lights adding a lovely shimmer to the view. The view was the highlight of the otherwise spartan room as Megatron held no interest in frivolous decorations or trophies.

The great room still managed a cozy feel. After offering Optimus a drink which he declined, Megatron gestured his guest towards a chair. Taking a seat, Megatron leaned towards Optimus without preamble. “I know why you are here–"

Optimus nodded briskly. “The peace negotiations are stalling.”

Megatron blinked and opened his intakes for a moment, clearly taken aback. His expression suggested he was expecting Optimus to say something entirely different.

Optimus gave him a questioning look, but Megatron just shook his helm and settled back in his chair with a calculating expression. “And you are here tonight because you want me to do something about it.”

“We cannot allow this opportunity for peace to be drowned in old aggressions,” Optimus confirmed. “I need your help to steer the peace process towards stable ground.”

Megatron had been monitoring the peace talks just as fervently as Optimus, and he knew exactly what his counterpart was referring to. Negotiations were stalling as mechs dug in their heels and old rivalries threaten to get in the way of true peace. So many cruelties had been inflicted over the course of the war… so much pain and loss suffered on both sides. Neither faction owned a monopoly on anguish or reprehensible behavior.

“You know I have no formal powers within my faction,” Megatron said, observing the data pad Optimus placed on the table. _At this time…_ the unspoken words hung in the air between them.

Optimus understood the undertone and held Megatron’s gaze, his own stoic and determined. He gestured in challenge … _shall we dispense with the obfuscations?_

While they had both stepped down for the sake of negotiations, it was understood that the mutual gesture was a mere formality to aid the peace process. The two factions fully intended to keep their original respective leaders. It was merely for the sake of propriety (and Optimus’ insistence) that both Megatron and Optimus Prime agreed to stand back, in hopes of keeping posturing to a minimum.

Megatron drummed his fingers on the small table between them while thinking the situation over… considering the possibilities. Optimus folded his arms broodingly as neither juggernaut would tolerate their subordinates losing control of the negotiations.

“I can have Ultra Magnus agree to give you the southern hemisphere as originally divided,” Optimus offered finally, “along with a full pardon to all Autobots and Decepticons regardless of their actions during the war.”

Megatron glanced at him with interest.

That particular snag was one of the bigger obstacles in the peace process. No small number of Decepticons deserved to be dragged out into the street and shot, and for the most part that wasn’t disputed. But a surprising number of Autobots deserved the same. A sense of injustice seethed among the Decepticons as the Autobots were clamoring for trials, punishment, and reparations; and yet they were far from the moralistic defenders they claimed to be.

Public records may suggest the Autobots were cleaner, but the Autobots had gone to great lengths to hide any vile behavior during the war. The Decepticons, meanwhile, never bothered to conceal their actions behind the bulwark of morality.

As such, the truth was a deep shade of gray.

The Autobots that should face justice included the Wreckers team (several were on record gleefully ripping out mech’s spines while high on boosters, along with many other gruesome acts). Their cruelty in battle was just as bad as anything on the Decepticon side, but the Autobots refused to consider war crimes trials for their soldiers, arguing that since they were morally obligated to stop the Decepticons, their actions should be understandable.

Trying to approach the opposition from an undeserved position of moral superiority (as not even the squishy organics believed in inherent Autobot goodness anymore) while dismissing clearly recorded incidents of their own depravity was seriously undermining the peace process.

“But in return, we need Starscream to give us the full north, _including_ Iacon and an equal division of supplies from our new alliance with the Quintesson. If we can reach that far, then I can make the others see reason for everything else.”

Megatron considered the offer carefully. “I can make it happen,” he finally agreed, but there was an undercurrent to his words, and now _he_ sounded uneasy. After a long moment, Megatron extended his electromagnetic field towards Optimus, his optics flashing brighter.

“Did you have any other reason to visit tonight?” Megatron asked as he leaned back in his chair, watching Optimus carefully.

Megatron’s field was guarded and unusually cautious, and Optimus hesitated for the intensity he felt from the other. His counterpart's fields were filled with suspicion and … something else. There was a current of longing that moved him.

Optimus extended his own calm fields, unsure for the source of Megatron’s mistrust, but fully intent on soothing the turmoil. “I don’t understand what you mean?”

But it was the current of yearning that made his spark flare instinctively, a desire buried under millennia of conflict, and through his own fields, he unintentionally assured Megatron that _that_ particular sort of interest was _very_ mutual.

They regarded each other with wary surprise.

Then Optimus opened his intakes nervously and dared to threaten the nascent flicker of shared interest between them, endangering the moment with some awkward question or phrase, and Megatron would have none of it.

Megatron startled Optimus with a sharp grin and _lunged._

 

* * *

 

Sunstreaker chased his brother up the throughway and onto the main highway, the both of them straining their engines to the maximum. Maintaining stupidly high rates of speed, he surged forward while trying to tap Sideswipe’s bumper and knock him into a tailspin.

“Oh, you frag right _off_ Sunbeam!” Sideswipe said, slamming on his brakes as Sunstreaker only barely missed smacking into the back of his brother and scraping his paint.

“ _Make_ me!”

Reunited after a long, unhappy separation, they were both fully enjoying each other tonight, much to the displeasure of the mechs around them. ‘Highway Tag’ was their favorite game, and Sunstreaker continued to threaten Sideswipe’s bumper as they raced down the highway.

Mechs panicked to get out of their way, brakes were slammed, threats were howled, and the two Lamborghinis couldn't care less, _frag you very much!_

“Share the road, aft-stains!” Sideswipe’s cheerful shout rolled back to the tune of screaming tires as he straddled the center line. Sunstreaker gunned his engine for another run at his bumper and ‘Sides dodged into oncoming traffic to avoid getting knocked into a tailspin.

They had been separated for far too long; Sideswipe had been sent out into space with his own crew while Sunstreaker had to deal with the aftermath of an incredibly unpleasant stint as a Headmaster alone.

Delighted to be finally reunited, both brothers were playing, punching, chasing, harassing, and fighting with each other nonstop. Anyone looking at them would think they were at war, but tonight all was right in the universe, and the spark brothers were having the time of their lives.

<Frag Prowl,> Sideswipe said through their internal comms. <I couldn't get out of there fast enough. Stupid guard shifts… so glad to see you Sunshine!>

<Don't call me that,> Sunstreaker snapped at him and finally managed to connect with his bumper.

Sideswipe barely kept from fishtailing off the highway this time. The red Lamborghini slammed on his brakes instead and Sunstreaker flashed his lights triumphantly at him as he roared past… _Tag! Eat my fumes slagger!_

Sunstreaker’s amusement flooded their spark bond as Sideswipe regained his treads and gunned his engine, racing after the shapely yellow bumper that had roared past him as if he was standing still.

<Prowl still being a pain in your tailpipe?>

Sunstreaker darted and weaved across the highway, avoiding Sideswipe’s attempts to tag him back as a cacophony of irritated honks, lights, and shouts followed their progress down the highway.

Sideswipe laughed and flashed his taillights in the Cybertronian version of _fuck you_ at the mechs he was passing at ridiculously high speeds.

<Like you wouldn’t believe! No, _seriously!_ ”> he said at Sunstreaker’s unimpressed snort, only barely missing an oncoming fuel hauler. The heavily loaded mech transformed in a panic and turned to yell at the racers, but they were already out of audial range.

<He's been acting worse lately _– I know right!? –_ I mean don't get me wrong, he's always been a complete toolbox _–_ >

<Got _that_ right,> Sunstreaker snapped as he dodged slower moving mechs, his twin right on his tail. <And what’s with all the traffic today?>

The yellow twin barely dodged the next surge from his brother and roared “Get the frag out of my way!” to the mechs slowing him down, gunning his engine and flashing his lights aggressively.

<Prowl's been weird lately,> Sideswipe complained as he was finally forced to slow down, the traffic getting thicker as they approached the heart of the city. <Ever since the fragging _Constructicons_ started hanging around, he’s been uptight and snapping at everybody. I wanted to ask him what crawled up his muffler and _died_ this morning when he _–_ >

<Bored now,> Sunstreaker snapped. <Hurry the frag _up,_ ‘Sides.>

<Uh, Sunny…? What have I been doing this entire time?>

Sunstreaker recklessly weaved around slower mechs. A small yellow vehicle went flying, and Bumblebee transformed an instant later. “Slow down you idiots!” he yelled while glaring after the two racers.

<Losing,> Sunstreaker finally snapped, <and I need to get back to the apartment like…yesterday. I just remembered I forgot to feed Bob before I left and he’s probably torn the whole place apart by now.>

Sideswipe groaned. <Really? Why do you still keep that stupid thing around anyway? It freaks me out.>

<Hey,> Sunstreaker said, stung. <Bob earns his keep, so shut up.>

<Whatever, Sunshine!>

Sunstreaker slammed on his breaks again. <I said don’t call me that!>

This time, Sideswipe went skidding off the highway, transforming as he spun over the railing. He reoriented himself while dropping towards the lanes below, heading in the opposite direction.

Mechs scattered and yelled as Sideswipe transformed midair, landing on his tires with a _clunk_ and peeling off, heading for a closer exit. Sunstreaker landed only a pace behind, and both Lamborghinis tore back out, joyfully yelling expletives back at the other mechs trying to exit the highway.

The two brothers chased each other halfway across the city towards their shared apartment, luxuriating in the joys of freedom and leaving a trail of chaos in their wake.

 

* * *

 

Megatron’s chair fell back, the table overturned, and Prime’s back plates hit the floor as they wrestled feverishly, neither yielding to the other. Two sets of instincts battled within them… a dual response of arousal and threat.

Prime flipped and rolled the other mech, regaining his footing, breaking off and then grappling with him again. The grip was instinctive as they'd done this many times over the long eons… but the undertone was different tonight. Their electromagnetic fields were extended instead of tucked close, thick plating fully flared, both frames open and willing.

Megatron panted, ex-vents expelling heat, excitement brightening his optics. _Shouldn’t do this …but can’t let this chance pass..._

His heavier frame should have given him the advantage, but their long association meant that height and weight meant less in the tussling match between them. Prime finally managed to pin him to the wall and hold him there, but Megatron’s own ironclad grip remained firm. He met Prime’s intense gaze with a playful grin while refusing to release the other.

But the stalemate was brief as Megatron pushed forward and unbalanced the other, finally tricking the other close enough to steal a light kiss…his intakes ghosting along the side of a panting mouth. _Come here…I want…_

Megatron tasted along the lip plating, his excitement heating him, flares of electric energy from his spark twisting through his sensor net and winding down to his interface array.

Pressing in close, Megatron’s nibbling turned into a kiss, intakes meeting. Truce was wordlessly negotiated with the deepening of gasping kisses. He released the other and worked his way down sleek neck plating, mouthing along silver-white cables, exploring Prime as he'd imagined so many times over the long eons.

Megatron pushed Prime down, landing firmly on his knees, pinning the other and pressing in close. _Got you now…_

Lust thrummed though his systems, Prime’s field pulsed in time to his own, twining and reflecting arousal. Spike straining in its sheath, spark swirling within him in wild anticipation, Megatron teased along Prime's interface panel to encourage him to open.

Prime reached out with his servos, running his fingers over the dark plating, optics bright. He spread his legs as Megatron notched between them. _Want you …open for me!_

Although Prime preferred to use his spike just as much as Megatron, he chose to give a little ground and opened his valve panel instead, leaving his spike cover closed.

Megatron’s optics flared. Pressing in closer, he was beyond delighted for the concession as Prime's interface components bared before him. He feasted on the sight; blue-painted folds with the faintest glimmer of lubricant along the slit. Slipping his servos down to stroke across Prime’s bare components, Megatron traced the valve entrance with lusty fingers even as he extended his spike.

Prime’s inquisitive fingers were quickly finding sweet spots, and Megatron's engine raced as his flight modified frame was far more sensitive than he was accustomed to. His servos continued the stroke and explore Prime’s slit, and a thumb began circling his throbbing exterior node, then dipping inside to tease along the inner nodes as charge began to build higher.

He worked one servo in, anticipation coiling taut for the tightness, and then anther followed, the passage growing slick with lubricant. Prime pushed against his fingers, sliding them in even deeper.

“Please,” Prime whispered, tugging at the other and Megatron melted for the plea and pulled back. Positioning himself, he coaxed his spike into that tight space. A low rumble of his engine marked his conquest as he slowly slid in, filling him completely. _Want you …mine now!_

Prime’s intakes fell open and he moaned soundlessly as he was filled.

Offering his own gasp when his spike was enveloped in that wonderfully tight heat, Megatron's grip on Prime was almost hard enough to dent. Delighted, he leaned in close when Prime wrapped his legs around his hips and urged him deeper with a deep, rumbling moan.

Setting a firm pace, he reveled in the feel of the slick slide of their metal, and Prime matched his rhythm as Megatron worked over his deepest nodes, spike moving feverishly within him, Prime's abdominals and valve tightening for the building tension within.

His engine rumbled as he began to peak.

_Primus!_

Beneath him, Prime overloaded with a frantic cry, charge crackling up into Megatron’s frame and he bucked into it, his own overload tantalizingly close.

But Megatron’s new spike had an unusual amount of resistance, holding onto the charge instead of releasing it, keeping him at the edge of overload and Megatron bared his denta in a wild pleasure haze as he continued to move.

Shaking for the high, Prime clutched at the dark plating like he was drowning, arms clinging to burning hot metal as the roar of their struggling cooling fans filled his audials, energy surging through his lines in time to the throbbing of their straining engines and he squeezed down hard enough to dent, even as his own charge began to rebuild from the crackling spike still so deep inside him.

 

* * *

 

From the safety of a shuttle far from the city, Soundwave frowned behind his concealing visor. Scanning the myriad communication lines, he strained his processor to its limits.

Rumble was standing on the navigator’s chair, monitoring the shuttle’s flight while his carrier scanned and re-scanned the various comm and data lines.

Finally, the communications officer found what he was looking for. _Found it at last … knew it had to be here._

“You found it,” Ravage said from under the command chair. He watched Soundwave’s fist clench and could smell the triumphant mood of the other mech.

“Indeed,” Soundwave rumbled, his distinct electric monotone echoing in the quiet cockpit. “I have located the signal wavelength Prowl intends to use to commandeer control of Megatron’s drone army.”

Rumble snickered as he absentmindedly jabbed at a blinking notification, dismissing the confirmation that Quintesson trade ships had arrived in orbit. He twirled his chair in a playful circle as he asked, “Did he really think we wouldn’t notice he’s slipped his leash and was planning to use our own drones against us?”

“Routing method: _ingenious_ ,” Soundwave murmured, impressed with his enemy’s creativity and unintentionally ignoring his prattling cassettes.

Frenzy kicked his pedes from where they were dangling over the edge of the control panel he was sitting on. “The Quintesson ships should be landing soon with Lord Megatron’s drones, right?”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave answered distractedly.

He was busy dissecting the arrant signal, decoding it in rapt fascination. He would have never considered running a malignant code line through the optical wiring for the lighting systems…but _there it was._ The signal was weak and vacillating which was why it was so hard to detect, but it was just steady enough to effectively commandeer the drone communication lines once fully activated.

Rumble laughed. “I can’t wait to see the Autobot’s faces when the drones arrive and we use them to overrun the city.”

“Decepticons forever!” Ravage hissed gleefully.

“Negative,” Soundwave said. “Lord Megatron will not activate drones unless absolutely necessary. Full extent of Prowl’s interference: unknown.”

Frenzy's good mood faded within the space of a sparkbeat. “Wait. So you’re saying we _aren’t_ going to be killing a bunch of Autobots tonight?”

“Casualties intended: minimal,” Soundwave warned his cassettes. “Lord Megatron intends for peace process to continue.”

“Peace through _tyranny_ ,” Laserbeak recited from her perch on the back of the command chair, extending and refolding her wings, vocalizer clicking happily.

Soundwave’s visor flashed with satisfaction as he contacted Megatron with the news of his success, sending his leader a requesting ping. He realized Megatron must have company when his call automatically routed to limited audio-only communications within his leader’s HUD.

“Report,” Megatron said briskly.

“Lord Megatron, errant signal located. Suspicions confirmed, Prowl no longer under Bombshell’s control. Constructicons: likely complicit with deception. Shall I reassign Combaticons to deal with them?”

“Stay the course,” Megatron ordered, sounding distracted. “I have already planned for this possibility and the situation remains in our favor, even if phase three of our initial plan is no longer feasible.”

Soundwave hesitated. “There remains a danger of Prime discovering our original operations–”

“Optimus Prime is…under control,” Megatron interrupted, clearly growing irritated with the conversation. “He will not be disrupting us tonight. Continue with the clean up as ordered, Soundwave.”

There was a low, rumbly noise as Megatron abruptly cut the line.

Soundwave tilted his helm suspiciously at the breathy sound and immediately began breaking into the active security monitoring lines, intending to spy on his beloved leader only long enough to be certain of his welfare. Astro-seconds later he broke through the encryption and the live security feed of Megatron’s flat flickered to life inside his HUD.

He froze as the security surveillance confirmed that Great Leader was currently _fine and dandy._

Underneath the command chair, Ravage tilted his helm curiously at the sudden burst of heat from Soundwave’s vents.

 

* * *

 

Optimus rode Megatron fiercely, skilled blue servos stroking and teasing along the sensitive flight panels tucked within the dark plating beneath him. Megatron’s helm was thrown back, optics shuttered, his denta bared in pleasure as charge crackled between them.

Optimus delighted in the deep moans from Megatron, who was still unaccustomed to the sensitivity of his flight wings. Optimus was still enjoying the aftershocks from his second overload, but Megatron hadn’t spilled once, though not for lack of trying; the heavy spike was straining with charge.

Optimus grew mildly irritated as he was nearing his third and Megatron still hadn’t fully peaked. He pulled back and pushed the heavier mech onto his back plates. He made a grab for the now exposed spike, rigid and crackling feverishly with charge. Opening his intakes, he threatened to take it in his mouth and then pulled back in surprise.

“Wait… are you wearing a _ring_?”

Megatron blinked at him, distracted and wildly enamored with the servo wrapped around his spike. His plating flared erotically as _those intakes_ were threatening to take his spike, and charge amped even higher for the threat, crackling up the length of his spike. He finally processed Optimus’ question and looked down curiously at his own equipment. He was disconcerted to see the little inhibitor ring encircling the base, entirely inconspicuous as it matched his paint hues perfectly.

“Factory seal,” Megatron chuckled ruefully. He tapped at it and smirked as Optimus rolled his optics. Megatron hadn’t had the opportunity to use his spike since coming online in his new armature rig and hadn’t noticed the little ring-seal.

“That counts as _cheating_ ,” Optimus said dismissively. “Get rid of it, and let’s see how long you _truly_ last.”

Megatron grinned at him wickedly and moved to do just that when a distant pulse of starship engines rattled the windows, interrupting them before they could start again.

The Quintesson vessels were arriving with first shipments of supplies and energon for the new governmental body. They both stopped to watch the Quintesson approach as the two large ships flew ponderously towards the space dock in the distance.

A chirp from a comm panel further interrupted them and Optimus looked down as his emergency line began blinking urgently. The ID tag was familiar; Red Alert was trying to contact him on an emergency frequency.

“I … should take this,” and Optimus reluctantly pulled away.

He watched out of the corner of his optic as Megatron frowned down at his equipment and snapped off the ring. He almost believed the inhibitor was unintentional when Megatron crushed it between his fingers with an annoyed rumble.

“This is Prime,” Optimus said. “What is it, Red Alert?”

Red Alert’s alarmed vocalizer bleated out from the comm line, babbling about an insidious conspiracy regarding drone armies and imminent Quintesson invasion or possibly Decepticon invasion or maybe a joint Quintesson-Decepticon invasion he wasn’t fully clear yet on the details but Prowl and possibly Rodimus and maybe even Ultra Magnus were definitely involved for sure and everybody needed to be warned _immediately_ because _–_

 _Not this again,_ Optimus moaned to himself.

Red Alert had always been a little unhinged. Lately though, he had been getting worse, seeing ominous schemes and lurking shadows in everyone and everything around him. In some ways, his sensitivities made him better at his job, but cohabitation with the Decepticons was triggering his paranoia to extreme heights. The last few months he had been filling High Command’s inboxes with accusations and intricately weaved conspiracy theories to the point of absurdity. There were only so many pointless wild shrikebat chases Optimus could tolerate before something had to be done, and they had passed _that_ point several deca-cycles ago.

“Red Alert,” Optimus attempted to be soothing, “is this regarding the Quintesson supply shipment that you have been so concerned about?” …‘hysterical’ was the glyph he actually meant, but he was too kind-sparked to say what he was really thinking.

“You don’t understand Prime!” Red Alert insisted, “I have proof this time!”

Megatron cocked his helm as he listened to the conversation. For long moments a tense expression dominated his face plates, but as Optimus remained distracted and continued to focus on talking Red Alert down from his latest panic attack regarding _impending invasions_ and _marauding drone armies_ and _evil Quintesson plots,_ the aggressive undercurrent slowly faded. His dark plating smoothed to his protoform as Optimus’ gentle but dismissive tones continued, and as the astro-seconds passed he returned his full attention to Optimus, a slow smile spreading across his face plates.

Optimus began eyeing him warily while failing in his attempts to get Red Alert off his comm line.

A mischievous glint crept into his eyes, and Megatron decided to give Optimus something to be worried about. When Optimus looked suitably distracted, he reached out a servo and clasped his leg. He pulled a startled-looking Optimus towards him, Optimus’ aft skidding along the floor.

“I checked the records Prime, and the exact amount of Shanix has already been transferred _–_ ”

Optimus leaned back in surprise as he was dragged towards Megatron, gesturing at his comms _...wait, I have to deal with this…_ and his optics widened as Megatron leaned over him. Lip plating only microns apart, Megatron tilted his helm as if to kiss him, only pulling back at the last moment. Then the large black and purple frame slid sensuously down the length of the smaller blue and red chassis.

_Don’t you dare!_

Optimus gestured threateningly at Megatron while his poor, glitching ex-security director (recently relieved of duty when his latest dramatic meltdown triggered by irregularly flickering hall lights ended in gunfire) babbled feverishly in his audials. Unfortunately, his threats only further amused Megatron and did nothing to dissuade him. Squirming uselessly, he was forced to listen to Red Alert’s frantic accusations as Megatron slowly moistened his lip plating.

Blue optics grew wider as Megatron ever so slowly lowered his helm toward his valve, the port still glistening with lubricant and the mesh lips still inflated from his previous attentions.

“–not the _exact_ amount, but close enough to be suspicious, and so I cross-checked with–”

“Red,” Optimus interrupted desperately as Megatron’s hot ex-vent swirled over his intimate components, “I know that things have been tense lately with our two factions struggling to find mutual ground–”

Then Megatron stopped teasing and settled over him firmly, his heavy frame wedged between his spread legs. Running his glossa over Optimus' valve slit, he rumbled and his cooling fans quickened a notch when Optimus couldn’t stifle his breathy in-vent fast enough.

“Prime…? Are you alright? Do you need help? Are you under _attack_?! Should I call the _security?!?_ ”

Powerful servos cupped and held Optimus' hips still and then Megatron traced the tip of his glossa around Optimus' exterior node, and then licked the node directly. His amusement coiled ever tighter as Optimus kicked out with a pede and squirmed _._

Optimus cleared his intakes loudly and redoubled his efforts to try and wriggle free, “I’m fine Red, but this … _hhn!_... isn’t a good time!”

Megatron grinned at him while holding him steady, and returned to nuzzling and mouthing between the mesh folds, lathing the sensitive metal with his warm glossa. Teasing the neuro-clusters just within the entrance, he took his time and explored them. He worked out which ones were most sensitive and giving them extra attention with his glossa.

Optimus’ shaking servos slid down and grasped at Megatron’s helm while pleasing intakes continued their intimate probing. Megatron felt the tremor in Optimus' fingers and responded to the frantic squirming by increasing his efforts, nestling his mouth a little deeper and swirling his glossa.

_Primus!_

“ _–_ know I should have waited until I had more proof but the ships are arriving and we are _running out of time_ and I am sure things are going to get _bad_ and though I know I don’t have the best track record right now I am _absolutely positive_ I am right this time please _please_ Prime you have to believe me _–_ ”

A small smile turned up the corner of Megatron's lip plating, his glossa slipping out and then surging back inside as Optimus arched his back strut. He traced and teased the internal sensors, charge arching back and forth between his glossa and the excited nodes.

Optimus strangled back the cries trying to escape his vocalizer. “I received … _hhnn! ..._ your full report yesterday and … _ahhn! ..._ forwarded it to Prowl for review and he advised me–”

“–but Prowl is involved and possibly even _responsible_ for–”

Optimus interrupted him after clawing back a bit of control, “I can’t believe that Red, but I do take your concerns seriously. I need you to contact Ultra Magnus and advise him everything you just told me–"

“But Prime!”

Optimus bucked frantically, “ _Now_ , Red Alert!” … as Megatron plunged his glossa over and over into his port, tongue-fragging him relentlessly.

“…yes Prime.”

Optimus cut the connection with a strangled gasp of relief and then cried out openly, his intakes falling open as he in-vented frantically, clutching Megatron’s helm with his servo, grinding his valve against the pleasuring intakes and shuddering wildly as he began to peak … and then overloading with a roar.

Megatron was grinning at him triumphantly as he fell back while gasping, and Optimus shook his helm in disbelief. _That makes three for me and he is still holding out,_ and from the look on Megatron's face strongly suggested he was not only aware of that but relishing in it, and Optimus was not about to let that stand.

“Give me _that_ ,” Optimus ordered, and pushed Megatron over onto his back plates.

The tightly erect spike, freed from its confining ring, was streaming pre-fluid now and he knew it wouldn’t take much more to knock Megatron over. He took hold of it, feeling the plating running hot under his servos, the biolights bright and crackling with charge, and he lathed his glossa over the tip and teased at the slit.

Sucking the spike deeply into his intakes, he was satisfied when Megatron arched beneath him with a delighted gasp.

Servos clenched as Optimus worked the spike firmly with his hand and intakes. Pumping the base between his fingers, he firmly sucked and stimulated the sensor-rich plating around the spikehead with his glossa.

He swallowed around it, a tight wet suction that had Megatron’s engine roaring. Bobbing his helm as he sucked, he pulled back for a moment, his glossa licking and playing with the hot metal pulsing in his intakes.

Then he stopped teasing and got serious, working the spike back in deeper, inch by inch, and it was Megatron’s turn to clutch at his helm, barely keeping himself from thrusting into the wet heat of his intakes. Pleasuring the sensitive connector with mouth and servos, it didn’t take long for Megatron to peak, his overly teased spike no longer restrained by the inhibitor ring.

Megatron overloaded with a gasp, his transfluid a hot flood as he emptied in shuddering pulses into the warm intakes. Optimus swallowed the fluid with a pleased rumble and continued to lick and suck him through a long and shuddering release.

He collapsed back with a satisfied rumble as Optimus released him, and he pulled the other down with him. They lay against each other, Optimus licking his lip plating clean, pleasure still radiating from Megatron’s fields for the aftershocks. Then he reached up and leisurely wrapped his arms around Optimus … and _tightened_ them.

Optimus felt a shiver of unease as something … predatory … crept into Megatron’s fields, and the arms around him grew constricting. “You never answered my question, Prime.”

“I still don’t understand what you mean,” Optimus reminded him. It was a truthful statement. Confident his confusion was proven through his electromagnetic fields, he didn’t try to pull back from Megatron’s servos. He had nothing to hide.

Megatron frowned at the denial, mentally shrugged, and put his backup plan into play as he must. “Did you not have any other reason to visit me tonight?”

“I do not,” Optimus insisted, clearly mystified. The odd tension in the air was beginning to worry him, and he leaned back to get a better look at his old adversary, gauging him, studying his expression.

Megatron made a show of sighing. “Your ex-security director is, in fact, correct. I have proof that the Autobots, specifically Prowl, conspire against my Decepticons and the peace process. We discovered he has ordered a full contingent of battle drones from Quintessa and intends to use them against my Decepticons _tonight_.”

“… _What?!_ ”


	2. Counter-plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Decepticons and Autobots plot against each other, i.e. deviousness as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :) 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments, I love them! :D

 

“Grimlock.”

Onslaught slammed his empty mug on the bar slab with a clatter. “ _Grimlock_ defeated us during the Praxis campaign, not _you_ jokers. You were just there for the fame, riding Grimlock’s skid plate for the glory of huffing his fumes.”

The temperature in the dingy bar dropped to glacial levels as mechs nearest them ducked under their tables, somebot changed his order to go, and a few sober mechs prudently bolted for the door. One paused mid-sprint to throw his hastily-emptied mug at the mech behind the bar, cursing his rotten luck when he missed.

The barkeep, a dinged up mech whose battered plating matched his questionable bar, scowled at the quarreling mechs while simultaneously ducking cheap plastic mugs thrown in his direction. He couldn’t afford to lose business for a bunch of trash-talking warbuilds.

“We don’t need Grimlock to deal with you idiots!” Snarl was rapidly reaching the end of his already minuscule amount of tolerance for Decepticons. Not only were they worried about their missing squad leader, but the Combaticons were going out of their way to be obnoxious tonight.

“Prove it,” Blast Off yelled, laughing. “I want to see you prove it!”

Not to mention this was the last seedy bar that didn’t lock their doors when the owners saw them coming. Slag _really_ needed to stop randomly starting fires for funsies when overcharged…

“Let me tell you what we're going to do,” Onslaught got right up in Snarl’s face plates while the other Dynobots struggled to keep Slag from starting something right there. “We are going to re-enact the fight and I will _prove_ you lot couldn’t fight your way out of a wet paper sack without Grimlock holding the soggy end open for you.”

Slag transformed into his alt mode. His thick tail sent the neighboring table crashing into the wall and his gaping mouth was already licking back flames. “Why we still talking?! Let’s _do_ this!”

In the corner a drunken Trailbreaker activated a low-level force field around his table and started cheering for the Dynobots. “Make fight not love!” he slurred while sloshing his drink in a toast with Skids. An instant later his fuel intake moderation chip gave up the ghost and face plates met table while Siren merrily swiped his drink.

“Not here,” Onslaught deferred, looking around and barely ducking a poorly-flung mug.

The other Dynobots were forced to agree; this is the only bar they haven’t been kicked out of tonight for starting fights. The barkeep was looking real antsy though. He was surprisingly spry for such a clunky shape; almost no one had scored a free drink yet.

“You pick the place,” Onslaught insisted. “Somewhere outside the city so we don’t get interrupted. Don’t want you calling Optimus _fragging_ Prime to come save your sorry skid plates when we _waste_ you.”

“Why outside?” Sludge asked, confused. “Drinks are here—”

Snarl grinned. “The old stadium grounds. The ones Bludgeon used to use for _executions_. Meet us there in a joor. I’m going to enjoy wrecking you.”

“Hey Onslaught,” Brawl beamed while throwing his glass back toward the bar, “you think these Dynobots are gonna be … dyno- _sore_ when we’re done with ‘em?!”

Instantaneously the entire bar fell deathly quiet… a prolonged, awkward silence as everyone reset their audials, the corner of Onslaught’s mouth twitched, and behind him Vortex mimed choking a glitch.

Snarl narrowed his optics suspiciously. “What’s a dynosore?”

“Don’t be late,” Onslaught snapped as he strode away, irritably shoving Brawl towards the door as the tank waved cheerfully at the fuming barkeep on the way out.

Blast Off rolled his optics. “Blame Swindle for this,” he muttered sub-vocally to Vortex. “He encouraged Brawl to download slagging Earth culture to better fit in while we were working for the humans.”

“Don’t remind me.” Vortex shook his helm with a groan. Their time spent on Earth grubbing for fuel was a low point for the Combaticon team. Those particular memory-files were best left rotting in the dustbin of history.

Once out of the bar, Onslaught let a small smile quirk his lip plating. The Dynobots may be powerful, but they would never win any contests for critical thinking. Goading them to follow his team out of the city had been too easy.

Brawl was unmoved by the grumbling flung in his direction. “Rumble tonight!” he cheered and transformed, ecstatic for the coming fight.

“Finally,” and Blast Off grinned. “It’s been vorns since our last good fight! All this peace and quiet is making my joints rust up.”

Onslaught tuned out his team’s inane chatter, too focused on updating his stratagems. He wasn’t thrilled with the last minute change in plans. They were far too hastily drawn in his opinion, thanks to Prowl’s meddling. At least he and his team had completed every assignment with precision and skill. Megatron’s original scheme may have been derailed, but he was satisfied that at least what _he_ was responsible for went off without a hitch.

Onslaught keyed in a quick update for Soundwave, confirming he had engaged the targets and they were well in servo. Thanks to his efforts the Dynobots would be out of commission for the fireworks tonight, and now Megatron’s emergency strategy would be much easier to pull off.

Everything was going to plan… which was just the way he liked it.

 

* * *

 

_“What?!”_

“You heard me. Prowl intends to renew our war, and I find it difficult to believe you are ignorant of his intentions.”

Megatron watched as Prime sputtered in disbelief.

 _He truly doesn’t know. What a curious development._ He spared only a moment to consider the implications while maintaining his hold on his alarmed counterpart. _A counter attack was inevitable once Prowl slipped the cerebro-shell’s control, but for Prime to be left out of the tactician’s plans? How unexpected._

This entire night had been one surprise after another. He had been expecting a confrontation and yet here Prime was _completely in the dark_ for all the scheming and plotting going on around him.

“I have no intention of endangering the peace process,” Prime said, “and I find your accusations questionable.”

Prime stared at him suspiciously, but Megatron maintained his even expression. He knew his suspicious concern was thrumming through his electromagnetic fields and Prime was using them to gauge his honesty.

Subterfuge was an art, and the master artist was hard at work tonight. “Soundwave uncovered the plot mere joors ago,” Megatron insisted. “We have been scrambling to uncover the depth of the impending betrayal.”

_Evidently there is more going on here then I am aware, which suggests some sort of intriguing personal dynamic I haven’t accounted for in my counter plans against the tactician. That may prove dangerous._

“Prowl has no reason to betray us and acquiring some sort of drone army is entirely out of character. You understand I will need more than merely your word, Megatron.”

“And you shall have it. I contacted the Quintesson myself, and they confirmed the drones are secured in their cargo hold. They are ready for immediate transfer to the mech who ordered them, Prime.”

Prime continued his endearingly naive and noisy assertions of Prowl’s innocence, and so Megatron provided his counterpart with proof of his outrageous claims. Still pressed against warm plating, Megatron played a conversation secretly recorded by Soundwave. It had been the start of the Decepticon’s mad scramble to uncover Prowl’s counter plot. He felt Prime’s electromagnetic fields pulse with shock and dismay as the tactician’s scheming was laid bare.

In the (lightly edited) playback, Prowl could be heard convincing Rodimus of the necessity of using the drones. Following after was a (heavily edited) conversation with the Quintesson captain confirming the drones were arriving on schedule, the snippets labeling them as _Megatron’s_ drones carefully removed.

Prime looked dismayed, and Megatron felt a glimmer of satisfaction… _I can still salvage something from this otherwise complete and utter disaster._

_I need only pin the blame on Prime’s forces while concealing our own involvement, creating proof the Autobots are responsible for the initial subversion. Hold that proof over Prime’s helm as it would enrage the NAIL factions if released, and it should prove more than enough leverage to ensure the Decepticons hold the upper hand in all further negotiations._

Megatron frowned when Prime scrambled to sit up, breaking the physical contact he was enjoying so much.

“I cannot believe this,” Prime said as he began tapping at his comm panels to contact Prowl, intending to confront him over the allegations.

“Mm,” Megatron reached out and grabbed Prime's servo to stop him. “While I am greatly reassured to learn you have no part in this, I admit I am rather disappointed. I found your presumed deviousness to be _most_ fetching.”

_Can’t let him contact his subordinates yet. I shouldn’t have confronted him so early. He will warn Prowl we are on to him which can’t happen for joors yet. I didn’t want to resort to this, but now thanks to my fumbling it is necessary._

Prime shook his helm, returning Megatron's playful look with one of dismay. The full realization of the scope of this disaster was just starting to crash down upon him. Tapping his comm panel again, he frowned suspiciously when the line didn’t connect.

Then Megatron lunged at him for the second time that night, and Optimus was startled to feel the sudden snap and drain of stasis cuffs – “What _the_?!” – and they grappled furiously.

“What are you _doing_?” Prime demanded, while the restraints immediately dampened his energy levels. Try as he might, he was unable to kick Megatron away.

Megatron tilted his helm and his servos clenched down on the other mech. “Only what I must to preserve peace.”

Prime grunted as he strained against his restraints. “Then why detain _me_? I am not responsible for any of this _._ ” His struggles grew weaker as his energy levels continued to drop from the dampening effect of the cuffs.

“Perhaps not… or perhaps you _are_ responsible, Prime.”

“Oh _please–_ ”

“Try to look at this from my perspective,” Megatron interrupted him. “All I know for certain is that a massive number of battle drones are arriving in secret on those ships,” he jabbed a finger at the Quintesson vessels on approach, “And they are under Autobot control. I have no intention of allowing members of Autobot High Command to endanger the peace process with their plotting.”

Prime was scowling, clearly waiting for the other grav-boot to drop. “I am still not convinced, and these restraints would suggest a different explanation-”

“The stasis cuffs are merely a precaution,” Megatron assured him, his satisfaction mounting as Prime was unable to resist him. “And it is not just you. All of Autobot High Command will be detained tonight while my Decepticons sort out Prowl’s duplicity. I intend to make certain this situation does not escalate.”

“And what happens when the drones arrive?” Prime was far less satisfied with how the night was turning out.

“Of course I have already taken preventative measures. The Quintesson have been paid off, and control of the drone army has been re-coded to _me_.”

_Unfortunate that I dare not use my drones against the city now for Prowl’s meddling. He has been free of Bombshell’s control…undetected…for over a deca-cycle now, plenty of time for complex multi-tiered counters. Without enough time or a full understanding of such a clever opponent’s plans, I am reduced to damage control and mere political maneuvering to keep this situation from blowing up in my face plates._

_Mm. Well played, tactician._

Prime squirmed in alarm. “And you intend to…?”

“Shut them down as soon as they disembark,” Megatron assured him, “preferably after Prowl and his cronies make fools of themselves in a public venue.”

_And in the meantime Bombshell will have regained control of his escaped thrall to put on a good performance, and Soundwave will have removed all traces of Decepticon involvement. Not nearly so good as my original plan, but for a backup plan this remains satisfactory. It still has my Decepticons coming out with an advantage, although Prowl will have to be disposed of carefully._

“A far better plan would be to release me and we can confront him together before the drones even come into play. Then have them publicly offloaded as a gift for both our factions to bolster planetary defenses.”

“And avoid implicating the Autobots in a plot to undermine our peace negotiations?” Megatron laughed, the otherwise light expression undercut with harshness. “Yet another example of how you manage to keep your faction’s sterling reputation Prime. Though we both know the truth of _that_.”

Megatron regarded Prime with an amused expression.

The tactician may have turned the tables on him, but he was deep in the process of twisting that controverted table right back around on Prowl tonight. Cross and double cross _… at least life remains entertaining!_

_Nothing more satisfying then a well-weaved deception…_

 

* * *

 

Nothing could dampen Starscream’s jubilant mood this evening.

The sunset was spectacular, filled with hues of red, green, and purple as the command trine darted through the whorls, making the most of their evening together. They hadn't had a lot of time together for play lately, and talon-locking was one of his favorite past times, right up there with weaving deceptions and backstabbing Megatron … and he was going for broke tonight.

 _Tonight is the night Megatron will be toppled from his throne forever._ Starscream’s spark danced within its chamber. Soon he would have everything he desired…

...and deserved.

Rushing wind caressed his wings as Starscream and Thundercracker quickly positioned themselves, hot blue plating pressed close and Starscream’s spike met and parted soft folds, plunging deep inside. Pressed belly to belly, they cut their thrusters, twirling in place as they began falling. Intimately entangled, they whirled and rolled gracefully through the air as they dropped down toward the ground far below.

Energy crackled across their sleek frames as they plummeted together, their entwined fields and whistling wind and the vibration of vibrant flight engines sending delightful sensation deep into their joined frames.

He moaned for the arcs of electric pleasure dancing between them…it was wonderful, _wonderful_ , the tension building low and tight across his frame.

Thundercracker revved his powerful flight engines as they tumbled in skyfall, the vibrations sending ripples of pleasure through them. Spike straining, Starscream’s ailerons twitched reflexively as he began to peak, surging towards overload.

Thundercracker was close as well, his valve tightening around his delightfully throbbing spike, the other jet shivering against his belly as rapturous cries were lost to the roaring winds.

Charge built rapidly between them as they fell from the sky, culminating into a shared convulsion and the crackle of released liquid pressure and charge in a shudder of shared ecstasy…and tight on the contrails of that high was one all-consuming thought.

_Tonight is the night I will lock in my rule._

Near the ground the throbbing began to ebb and they swiftly separated and powered back up into the sky. Skywarp began courting Thundercracker for the next round, his bright blue colors glinting with splashes of color from the sky around them. Dipping his handsome wings and preforming complex flight maneuvers, Thundercracker darted and danced across the sky like a bird of prey courting a mate.

Starscream watched as Skywarp and Thundercracker carefully connect and then drop from the sky as he circled them, enjoying the view.

_It’s good to have you back, TC..._

A trine once more, they had been reunited after Thundercracker abandoned Earth when the humans began to act shadily towards him. Creeping back to Cybertron with the NAILS, he arrived with warnings of a cloned army and a mess of irritating new mannerisms. Finding acceptance, he promptly attempted a dull, boring civilian life with his bizarre little organic pet, a pug-mix puppy named Buster.

Starscream had openly courted his prodigal trine mate, and the warm welcome from his faction along with a pardon from Megatron had eased him back into the ranks … he was too valuable a soldier to waste.

Awash with giddy excitement, he was beyond pleased with himself tonight, and for far more than the interfacing which he was enjoying. _Tonight Megatron will be brutally separated from his vaunted legacy… dragged away to be thrown into the deepest, darkest hole Cybertron has to offer…a hole he dug himself when he refused to listen to me._

It was the best part and comprised no small amount of his arousal tonight. His relationship with Megatron had always been complicated, but one thing remained the same … their constant struggle for dominance over each other, in the berth and within the Decepticon hierarchy.

Megatron currently held dominion in a tightly clenched fist, with Starscream wresting it from his servos any chance he got.

Admittedly he had been fully on board with Megatron’s master plan at the beginning. He’d been thrilled when Megatron informed him he was stepping back and Starscream was able to run things his way. The warlord had been content to allow him this little political playground, considering the joint Decepticon-Autobot government nothing more than a farce to be toppled when the time was right.

Left to pander to his wiles, Starscream had played his role as peace-seeking statesman to the hilt and the people … the people had responded to him. They had _listened_ to him.

Starscream hadn’t planned on the planet beginning to recover and calling for the rest of the Cybertronians to come home. He hadn’t planned on the city becoming overrun with neutrals, teeming with mechs wanting the war to just _go away_. Nor had he planned on the people embracing his peace process.

He had always been charismatic, possessing a real knack for pulling mechs together and getting things done. He was especially effective when he believed in what he was doing; when his political maneuverings meant more to him than mere amusement.

Starscream hadn’t planned on making such real and steady progress towards peace, and that was when he realized the truth. This peace process could work. It would work. He wanted to achieve peace. Now if only Megatron would listen…!

Starscream darted through the skies, watching as his trine mates disconnected from each other at the last possible second and regained altitude.

This new approach was already working vastly better than any of Megatron’s heavy-handed attempts at forcing change. He tried to talk to Megatron, tried to convince him that letting this joint controlled government happen was the best thing they could do for the Decepticons and the planet. Of course his attempt had fallen flat, just as he suspected it would.

His processor dredged up a memory-file of the blow he had suffered at the servos of his leader for his insolence. He scowled, remembering staring up at furious red optics from where he had been knocked to the floor.

_The peace process is working and here you stand so willing to throw it all away to cling to past animosities. You are the past and I am the future._

Starscream’s current attempt to usurp Megatron was the most important scheme he'd ever undertaken... and also the simplest. It merely involved staying out of the mess Iacon was going to become in short order.

Beside him, Skywarp was cheerful and unsuspecting, although Thundercracker had been scrutinized him carefully all evening.

He was doing his trine mates a massive favor tonight, deceiving them by claiming they had been reassigned to a special mission. They were running comm-silent while playing in the crisp evening air and waiting for a signal from Megatron that would never come.

Starscream flicked a playful wing at his suspicious trine mate. _You idiots better appreciate this,_ he thought at the two jets dancing in his contrails. _This will keep you two out of a prison cell and at my side in positions of power._

Not only that, but they would serve as witnesses proving he was innocent of all wrongdoing. He already had all the evidence he needed of Megatron’s involvement in the plot to overthrow the city, and he knew his trine will fall in line and support him as soon as his pre-recorded broadcast hit the communication feeds.

It would all kick off as soon as the first Quintesson supply ships landed.

After swooping in with proof of Megatron and Prowl’s duplicity and getting them both arrested, it would merely be a matter of smoothing over ruffled plating and continuing on with the peace process.

 _And I will finally be in control of the Decepticons, just as I always knew I would be._ _Megatron is finally going to get what is coming to him…_ he was giddy with anticipation.

And overloads … lots and lots of overloads.

As Skywarp appeared next to him with a _wharp_ and began to flirt suggestively, he returned the graceful motions and began to rise higher into the sky to position for the next freefall interface.

Starscream’s ailerons flexed gleefully as Skywarp pressed in close to his belly and he cut his thrusters, dropping and whirling through Cybertron’s exquisitely beautiful sky in a rapidly building ecstasy.

_There is nothing more satisfying than a well-planned double cross!_

 

* * *

 

_Something is wrong._

The overturned table and chairs and the dangerous mech looming over him only furthered his wariness.

Optimus shook his helm and calmed himself. “I don’t believe you. There is far more to this then you are suggesting.” Looking back over the evidence, he mentally put the pieces in place only to find they didn’t fit properly. None of this made any sense, unless viewed through the lenses of the past.

“This is _far_ more likely to be another one of your plots,” Optimus groaned.

“Throttle down, Prime,” Megatron said, still trying to sooth him. “I am not responsible for this mess and I have no intention of harming you.”

Falling back on his knowledge of the other mech, Optimus knew his instincts were right, no matter the evidence Megatron produced for him. He was unwilling to believe Prowl would stoop so low as to betray him, not when a much more reasonable explanation was staring him straight in the optics.

“You have betrayed us,” Optimus insisted.

His plating was clamped to his frame for his upset, and he was already tired of the conversation. He was well aware he was being deceived somehow, and then a soft breeze across his bare components served a reminder. The _snick_ of his intimate panels snapping closed was embarrassingly loud and he winced, feeling ashamed for being caught with his panels down - literally! - even as a blush spread over his face.

He had been so desperate for lasting peace that he had snatched at this opportunity with both servos, only to discover he was holding on to nothing more than yet another Decepticon scheme. Then he startled when Megatron carefully lifted him up off the floor and laid him out on the couch. There was an electric tingle dancing across Megatron's plating, and he could still feel the hum of cooling fans from the aftermath of their intimacy.

“Don't be so worried Prime,” Megatron repeated for the umpteenth time. _“_ I remain committed to the peace process. All this bother tonight is merely in response to Prowl’s aggression.”

“You are lying.” Optimus shook his helm. “Prowl would never—”

“Your own Autobot uncovered Prowl’s plot,” Megatron reminded him. “Did Red Alert not explain to you in detail what he uncovered mere breems ago? Apparently there is much about your tactician you do not know.”

Optimus frowned as Megatron continued to loom over him. Megatron's expression was intense and he was still trying to be soothing, which was unusual. By now his nemesis should be explaining his plot in great detail and gloating over his inevitable victory-

“When I confront Prowl and his duplicity comes to light, things will change,” Megatron continued, trying to mentally prepare Prime for his inevitable victory. “Then you and I will sit down together and come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”

“Agreements don't work that way,” Optimus insisted with a knowing look, “and you _know_ I won't accept an accord while under duress.”

Megatron cut him off. “I am aware, but we already agree our war cannot continue as the price remains too high. We must find a way to make this work. I am committed to a different approach, and intend that you and I forge a lasting peace together.”

“How do you not see that this is exactly the same as any of our other battles?” Optimus asked, waving his cuffed servos at Megatron in frustration. “You and I disagree, one of us attacks the other, and the war continues apace!”

Megatron hesitated. “But this is different ... the rules have changed. Details will come later, but I _will_ consider co-ruling with you, to a point. I intend you to find me most agreeable.”

“ _To a point_ ,” Optimus threw the words back at his old enemy, “and I will find you agreeable only if _you_ hold the final say, agreeable only if _you_ hold the position of power.”

“There is always someone steering, Prime. Always someone with a plan, forging the path to the future,” Megatron confirmed the accusation without hesitation. “Make no mistake; there must be a supreme leader, one with the strength to lead us to better days. _I_ am that leader… but I am willing to make concessions I would never have considered previously–”

Optimus slammed his optics closed and threw his helm back with a groan as Megatron continued to chatter about alliances, but he had already started to tune out the noise for his intense disappointment. Primus almighty, now many times had he heard these sentiments over the last four million years? Too damned many and he found Megatron’s words disheartening.

Did nothing ever really change?

In spite of Megatron’s efforts, Optimus remained deeply upset as peace was rapidly retreating out of reach. And yet, the electromagnetic fields still extended and entwined with his own assured him Megatron didn't intend to harm him tonight. At least that was something. He tried to sit up but fell back when his frame refused to cooperate. Moments later his wrist communicator lit up again, the emergency line blinking frantically.

Red Alert’s ID number flashed with relentless insistence.

***

 

The spectacular sunset was coming to a close when the expected Quintesson ships passed by the large windows. Rattling the glass panes as they passed, the massive, spiraling vessels slowly approached the primary space dock in the distance.

Megatron noted they were coming in a bit fast, but was promptly distracted as Prime’s insistent but useless squirming was most endearing. He reached out and playfully stroked Prime's straining face plates. His own array was still tingling, and he traced along the Prime's cheek with a bent finger, wishing he was still spike-deep within him. He pulled his servo back when Prime snapped his battle mask closed with a harsh _snick_.

Megatron smiled with a rueful, surrendering gesture, and stepped back a pace. Once again he regretted ending their encounter so early. While he realized it was hardly Prime’s fault he hadn’t noticed his factory seal, he still wanted to paint that lovely valve in _his_ shade of transfluid…

Prime’s wrist communicator continued to ping frantically, unanswered.

Megatron wouldn’t admit it to his underlings, but he almost regretted his current plan. He had ordered the drones and set this deception in motion, intending to play along with Prime’s peace process while positioning his troops for the final push.

Starscream had been the first to bring it to his attention, but initially he hadn’t believed his second. And yet the longer their deception had drawn out, the more he came to remember something he had long forgotten; winning meant winning over _the people_.

Starscream was doing a fantastic job, though Megatron would never acknowledge that to his face. Perhaps a lighter hand would be more effective… something to explore later.

Watching Prime squirm uselessly, not for the first time Megatron wondered if he was getting too old for this. _Perhaps I am losing my touch,_ he worried, flicking a glance out the window at the Quintesson ships on approach. He mentally added this evening’s encounter to the sum of amateur mistakes he’d been making recently.

_Interfacing the night away while Soundwave scours clean all incriminating evidence and Bombshell regains control of Prowl … a younger version of myself would have instantly exploited this opportunity. I should be fragging Prime senseless right now, but thanks to my fumbling I am left with stasis cuffs and soothing noises._

_Ah well._

Behind them, the Quintesson ships leveled out and Megatron relaxed. Turning his back to the window, he returned his full attention to his alluring counterpart, that bright blue and red frame still lying sprawled over the couch before him.

Prime returning his long-simmering interest had been unexpected. Their encounter tonight had opened tantalizing opportunities he'd only dreamt of, and he intended to keep his pede wedged into _that_ particular door. _I will have to coax Optimus through this difficult transition to Decepticon control instead of trying to batter him into submission. Tonight will be good practice for our new dynamic._

 _Speaking of battering things into submission_ … and with that thought Megatron transmitted a text-only demand for updates through his internal HUD to the teams scattered throughout the city tonight. He began sifting through the replies while Prime continued to grumble at him. He practiced making soothing noises in reply.

Fully distracted, Megatron didn’t notice that instead of slowing, the spiral starships passed right over the nearby space dock and began to maneuver towards the heart of the city. As their thrusters adjusted course, the ship's various reflective angles caught and shattered the dying light, making the alien metal gleam with all the colors of the fading sunset.

Megatron noted Soundwave had re-assigned Swindle to the Seacon’s team along with several others. Apparently the Wreckers were drunk and belligerent tonight, and were resisting all efforts at subtle containment. This meant Bruticus would be unavailable; a disadvantage if the Dynobots became troublesome. Hopefully Onslaught was up to the challenge. Curious, he began looking for an update from the Combaticon, sifting through the hastily-constructed reports filling his inbox.

“This is unacceptable,” Prime rumbled up at him as he fell back and stopped struggling, his blue optics bright with upset.

Megatron sighed again. “I spoke truthfully when I said I intend to end our war peacefully, but our people must be left strong, capable, and _powerful_.”

Megatron and Prime were both taken aback when their wrist communicators started buzzing and blinking, showing a loss of connection. “Unusual,” Megatron murmured and tapped at his panel, frowning at the blinking in his HUD, indicating even emergency communication channels were being blocked.

A flash of light brightened the window as a massive energy surge erupted from the main Quintesson ship now hovering over the heart of Iacon. An immense shockwave of brilliant blue energy enveloped the city center, radiating outward.

Megatron whirled towards the flash. “What in—”

An instant later the glass planes exploded inward with the force of the released energy, throwing him backward.

The last thing his optics registered was Prime seizing helplessly on the couch as he was thrown over it, crashing into the wall and convulsing, the massive energy surge plunging them both offline.

 


	3. Triple-Cross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Quintesson increase their holdings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** This story can get very dark, and please be aware of that. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :)

The last rays of sunlight faded, signaling the end of a spectacular sunset as a massive shock wave blasted outwards. Roaring across Iacon, it blew the circuits of every mechanical being in its wake and the Cybertronians closest to the blast collapsed like severed marionettes.

Within moments, the rest of the Quintesson troops arrived.

Mechs armored enough to withstand the initial energy blast found themselves under immediate attack as the assault forces dropped in masses to the city below. Moving with the confidence of extensive preparation, they overwhelmed anyone they encountered in a relentless advance. Enemy forces invaded the city in overwhelming numbers; reinforced by drones under full Quintesson control.

Still aboard the small shuttle on route to Iacon, the communication black out was Soundwave’s first and only warning something was wrong, but eons of battle experience served him well.

Unable to reach anyone in Iacon, Soundwave broke into the Quintesson's communications systems by necessity. As he listened to their chatter while trying to reach Megatron, it wasn’t long before he discovered the truth.

“Rumble, divert course. Operation: avoid detection.”

Ravage could smell Soundwave’s anxiety, a hot electric tang wafting down to his nasal sensors. Leaving his warm spot, he uncurled from under the command chair and leapt up onto the main console. He watched as pilfered Quintesson data feeds began filling the shuttle’s small vid screens.

The panther tilted his head quizzically. “What is happening?”

“Quintesson ships have attacked Iacon,” Soundwave relayed in his distinctive monotone. “Quintesson acquisition fleet on route and military chatter detected across all frequencies.”

Tapping at the shuttle’s communications panels, he began creating a new emergency channel. Intent on re-connecting with anyone still functional, he hoped to provide aid to the beleaguered mechs trapped in the city.

“But we paid them!” Laserbeak squawked while flapping her wings. “They have betrayed us!”

Soundwave rumbled an affirmative. “They used our supply agreement as cover to get their ships and the drone army close enough for a surprise attack. Invasion successful: all faction and non-affiliated NAIL leaders confirmed captive.”

“Wait … all faction leaders? Then they have Megatron?” Frenzy asked, alarmed.

Soundwave rumbled an unhappy affirmative. “Megatron and Optimus Prime both confirmed captive.”

“We’re gonna rescue them, right?” Rumble said as he clenched his tiny fists.

“Situation currently insurmountable,” Soundwave answered regretfully. Even now the stolen information trickling across the shuttle’s screens were confirming the worst. The battle for Cybertron had ended before it even began, with most of the city already locked down.

The only exception was a few combat teams and mechs fortunate enough to avoid the initial electromagnetic pulse-blast. Hearing their frantic inquiries in his HUD, Soundwave provided updates and direction as best he could.

“Immediate reaction would be illogical due to overwhelming enemy numbers. Safety and a base of operations must be attained before we can help the others.”

“This is not good,” Laserbeak muttered.

Soundwave flashed his visor in agreement as he took the shuttle off manual control. Fleeing down into the safety of Cybertron’s deep fissures, he furtively guided their shuttle away from normal flight routes, slipping between the Quintesson’s grasping tendrils and away.

 

* * *

 

“What the frag is going on in the city?” Dead End asked as he slammed on his brakes. His tires puffed smoke as he skidded along the abandoned racetrack the Stunticons were currently tearing apart.

The evening was looming bright and clear. The encroaching darkness highlighted the glowing lights of the Quintesson ships as they floated above Iacon’s city center. The sight was unusual; normally the city center was a no-fly zone for large space ships.

“Guys! Something’s wrong!” Breakdown’s frantic vocalizer broke over their private comm line.

The Lamborghini was still inside the city tonight. He was far too busy having a panic attack over recent news broadcasts to join his brothers in their merrymaking. A camera-mech had zoomed in on his handsome face plates during a street festival a few cycles previous, and he remained an unbearable jumble of panicked circuitry.

Breakdown clearly regretted his decision now. “There are Quintesson ships everywhere–” his comms broke off a moment later as communications went down. Motormaster started cursing.

“This still counts as a win!” Drag Strip yelled as he roared past the slowing Dead End with Wildrider right on his bumper. “That’s three for three you sorry losers!”

Motormaster shot a hateful glance over his shoulder at his insufferable subordinate, then turned and stared as a massive bubble of brilliant light expanded and engulfed Iacon. Shocked, he watched as it roared across the city. Spilling into the outskirts, the wave was as relentless as it was beautiful.

They were fortunate as the energy blast fizzled out before it reached them; they were too far outside the city to be effected. Tearing up the abandoned race track tonight had been Wildrider’s idea, and their distance from the city was the only thing saving them from capture.

Motormaster was maniac-aggressive, but he wasn’t a fool. He saw the Quintesson ships already swarming; the rest of the massive fleet entering the lower atmosphere and heading towards Iacon.

“Get moving,” the Stunticon leader ordered. “Head for the Sea of Rust. They won’t find scrap with the storms out there, and we can hide ‘til this slag blows over.”

Drag Strip took a step forward. “Yeah sure, but what about Breakdown?”

“I said **move**!” Motormaster roared as he transformed and gunned his engine threateningly. The rest of the Stunticons fell in line without further questions. No one wanted to be on the receiving end of the truck-former’s ire, not even for their trapped gestalt mate.

Above the city, the Quintesson ships began to open numerous hatches and bay doors, the vessel’s lights flickering as countless moving forms blocked them.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dead End comforted the glum Drag Strip as they peeled out and raced away. “We are probably all going to die either way.”

“Frag me to the pit,” Drag Strip mumbled.

The first few stars were just beginning to appear in the night sky as the Stunticons poured on the speed, slipping past the Quintesson’s capture radius and vanishing into the wilds.

 

* * *

 

Hook was the first to his pedes, though he wasn’t up for long. Back strut met sidewalk as he fell, sprawling flat with a groan as his limbs refused to cooperate. “What the hell?”

Across from him, Long Haul groaned. “No idea.”

Looking over his shoulder, Hook assessed the other Constructicons also sprawled on the ground, minus Bonecrusher, who was currently shadowing Prowl. Long Haul was shaky, off-balance, and small sparks of discharge were still crackling across his armor plating. Mixmaster looked no better and appeared offline. _Some sort of electromagnetic weapon,_ he realized. _What the frag is going on? This wasn’t part of Prowl’s plan…_

Seated outside a small cyber-café near the city center, they had been patiently awaiting Prowl's signal while arguing over the finer points of a structural design. Too engrossed in their squabble, they hadn't noticed the ships hovering above the mid-city skylines until it was too late. Even with their thick, heavy armor, the powerful blast was devastating.

“We have to reach Prowl and Scavenger,” Long Haul groaned, trying and failing to get to his pedes. Next to him, Mixmaster still wasn’t moving.

“If Megatron's behind this we have to get lost, _now_.” Hook snapped at Long Haul. "You know how he responds to betrayals if your designation isn't _Starscream_."

He tried to open a comm line to Prowl and Scavenger, tapping irritably at the blinking warnings informing him all communication lines were down.

“Mix,” Long Haul muttered, reaching out to shake his lax team mate’s leg. “Mix you okay?”

Hook’s ventilations were uneven and he fell back for a moment. Above him, the stars were in full glory now, and twinkling merrily. He stared at them while trying to calm his ventilating. Then his bleary optics focused on the angry mass of specks starting to detach from the spiral ship floating so serenely above them.

_“Son of a glitch.”_

“What?”

Still on his back plates, Hook had a beautiful view of the Quintesson ship as masses of drones and attack squads streamed down like swarms of hungry locusts settling over a harvest.

_Whomp…whomp...whomp…_

Vibrations from heavy impacts were sounding all around them. The capture squads were making landfall. Hitting the ground hard, they immediately began spreading out in pre-planned grid patterns, their movements confident and practiced. Following in their wake was heavier machinery, loaders, haulers, and other vehicles.

Hook watched as a capture squad overwhelmed Wheeljack and Perceptor, the two scientists slumped on the ground only a few restaurants down the strip. He saw them kick the engineer back down when he tried to sit up. He frowned when they blasted the microscope sharp-shooter in the chest with some sort of energy weapon when he reached for his rifle.

_Whomp!_

“–we have a problem.”

 

* * *

 

On Iacon’s main motorway, the Lamborghini twins had spun out together. Crashed against the median, they were still in vehicle mode and twitching from the aftereffects of the massive energy pulse.

_Whomp!_

“Sunny?” The red twin transformed to root mode with difficulty and reached for his brother.

Sunstreaker groaned as he followed with his own slow transformation. Collapsing onto his front, his limbs jerked and convulsed as he coughed out a reply. “Don’t… call me…”

_Whomp!_

Sideswipe grunted and managed to struggle to his pedes just as a newly landed Quintesson containment squad fell upon them.

Small points of light from alien technology caught his attention, bright in the dark of evening. He could hear the click of weapons at the ready and alien voices shouting commands that his universal translator fizzted over as the heavy assault troops charged toward them.

Unwilling to go down without a fight, Sideswipe gathered himself and lunged toward them as energy weapon discharges sizzled through the air all around him, smelling of hot ozone. Taking a hit to his shoulder, he faltered and then surged forward, continuing his charge. Out of the corner of his optic he saw several of them break off and head towards his brother, still sprawled over the smooth metal of the highway.

“Get away from him!” Sideswipe roared.

He smashed into one of the aliens, fighting to defend his fallen twin. He did all he could to give Sunstreaker time to struggle to his pedes, but he was far outnumbered. Too unbalanced from the energy pulse, he finally fell to his knees and was overwhelmed.

“We have these,” the alien squad leader yelled to the next approaching squad, the universal translator in Sideswipe’s HUD finally making sense of his guttural, flapping-organic-meat speech. “Continue forward!”

The red twin groaned as a heavy foot ground down on his back plates, holding him still while smaller workers began to move towards him. The smaller aliens eyed him warily while brandishing ominous-looking restraints.

“They are scratching my paint,” he heard his brother moan. He tried to snap at Sunstreaker _– are you seriously glitching about your **paint** what the frag bro – _ but could only spit static for the discharge humming through his frame.

Strapped down next to Sunstreaker, he saw other loaders passing by them. The large convoys rumbled past, loaded down with mechs and heading towards the landing Quintesson ships. Recognizing Bumblebee, Wheeljack, and Perceptor among them, he squirmed in his restraints.

His struggles were ultimately futile as he and his twin were among the first wave of Cybertronians to endure the Quintesson collection process. Shackled, sorted, and tagged, the workers loaded the new slaves into acquisition ships with the utmost efficiency.

In a completely wrecked apartment nearby, an Insecticon runt whimpered and chewed on his back leg. On the street below, the thuds of landing troops added bass to the cadence of thrumming ship engines. Energy blasts flashed, lighting up the night like firecrackers.

_Hrrrritt… Hrrrritt…_

Emptying his waste tanks on Sideswipe’s favorite couch, Bob sat back and howled.

 

* * *

 

“Combaticons!” Onslaught snarled. “L-Grid maneuver and keep it tight!”

Next to him, Brawl grabbed a piece of debris and used it as a makeshift shield to cover his retreat. “These back-stabbing little freaks have a bite to ‘em!”

Tangling with the Dynobots in the outskirts of the city, both teams had been deep in combat when the pulse hit. The Combaticons had immediately abandoned the drunken Dynobots to their fates as all hell broke loose inside the city proper. Now they were struggling to break clear of the roving capture squads, intending to flee into the wilds.

Unfortunately, the Quintesson had other plans.

Energy blasts flashed in the darkness as the Combaticons found themselves pinned down under heavy weapons fire.

“Move your afts!” Onslaught roared.

The bombardment intensified and he couldn't keep his servos from shaking while trying to acquire a target. Giving up, he charged back to deeper cover instead, deciding to focus on directing his team to safety.

“Hey Onslaught! What you wanna bet,” Brawl ducked to avoid a furious barrage, “Swindle sold them their stupid blasters?!”

“Where _is_ Swindle?”

 _We could really use Bruticus right about now,_ Onslaught thought, but with their leg component missing, things didn't look good. The jeep had been running late. He should have shown up before they engaged the Dynobots, but they hadn’t seen any sign of his pretty face tonight.

Using the flashes in the dark as a guide, Blast Off picked off a trooper and then answered. “He sent me a text while we were fighting the Dynobots. Soundwave reassigned him at the last minute to help with the Wreckers–”

“Stunticons failed to contain them?” Vortex guessed, coughing.

He ducked down when the enemy launched a particularly heavy salvo of blasts in his direction. Noticing his team mate was in trouble, Brawl lobbed a grenade towards the bulwark the Quintesson troops were using for cover.

Blast Off laughed, the sound lost in the resulting explosion. “ _Those_ idiots? Are you _kidding_ me? Megatron didn’t even let them in on the plan! Said they weren’t ‘tactically cognizant’ enough.”

“Seriously?” Vortex tried to laugh but spat fluid out his intakes instead.

Brawl nailed another unfortunate trooper with a head shot and sniggered. “ _He_ said that?! Fraggin’ hell, that’s Megatron-speak for too goddamned _stupid_ to keep your dumb-aft intakes shut during sensitive operations–”

“Right, but what’s that got to do with _Swindle_ –”

“Forget him for now! We have to get out of here!” Onslaught snapped.

He could see enemy reinforcements arriving even as he took out another shock trooper with a careful blast. He was still struggling to acquire targets. Although his thick armor had protected him from the worst of the electromagnetic pulse, he was still shaking from the stray voltage.

It made aiming difficult.

“Are you flight-worthy yet?” Onslaught yelled at Blast Off as he motioned his team to retreat. Even using the rubble from the collapsed buildings around them as cover, they were still struggling to get out of the besieged city.

“No,” Blast Off admitted. “Too fragged…can’t even transform.” The shuttle-former began to take aim again and then pulled back as Onslaught waved him over.

“Hey now, we can’t leave Swindle!” Brawl said as they broke cover and charged for the next building, ducking energy blasts. “What the frag are we gonna do without our leg?”

“No way to know his location!” Onslaught retorted, “Not with the communications blackout.”

Taking careful aim, he managed to hit the next Quintesson shock trooper who dared present a target. He let loose anther volley of blaster fire, providing cover for Vortex, who was lagging behind. Unfortunately the ‘copter’s smaller frame and thinner plating meant the electromagnetic pulse had more effect on him, but he was still no slouch. Intakes heaving, he did his best to keep up.

“Move!” Onslaught grabbed his team mate and hauled him out of the line of fire, shoving him into their next sheltering bolt hole.

Brawl provided more cover fire, grunting as one of the energy blasts nicked his shoulder and nearly took his helm off. “You _missed_ you sorry aft-licker!” he roared over his cover and then ducked as a barrage of shots zeroed in on his location.

Blast Off hissed and slapped at his helm when a burst of static lit up his audial sensors; data feeds had resumed. “Communications back! Soundwave’s on the horn!”

“Tell me what the frag is happening out there!” Onslaught returned blast after blast, too busy to mess with his own comm settings. The capture squads were reconvening in the distance and he hissed when he realized they were separating.

_They are going to cut us off and try to pin us down. Frag it all! There's no time for a real plan!_

In the habit of working from carefully constructed strategies, he hated doing anything on the fly. But things were moving too fast; his team’s reactions are far slower than they should be due to the after effects of the electromagnetic blast.

“Soundwave’s clear of them,” Blast Off reported. “We have a working emergency communication hub now.”

“How does that work when there is a communications black out?”

“Blast Off, get me in contact with him! We need a safe direction to head towards. The city is crawling with these freaks!”

“What about the Sea of Rust? It’s not too far out and the storms would cover us–”

“–fragging _genus_ is using their own signals, piggybacking on the Quint’s own comm lines.”

“Ask ‘em about Swindle!”

_“Incoming!”_

They went down under an unexpected blast from a heavily armored special ops trooper. The electromagnetic pulse dropped them as the capture squad charged forward.

“Slag me,” Blast Off moaned as his systems heaved and a heavy boot smashed his helm into the ground. Beside him, Vortex and Brawl were twitching uselessly as slave workers began to process them.

Brawl swallowed the internal fluid filling his intakes as shackles clamped tightly over his wrists and pedes. “I just got this feeling these slaggers are gonna ruin my fraggin’ evening.”

Onslaught thrashed nearby, wheezing as the capture squad began restraining him for processing.

Throwing a feeble punch at the blank-faced wretch that dared try to restrain him, the last thing Onslaught saw was the business end of some sort of pulse weapon.

His world went white for an instant and then darkness reigned.

 

* * *

 

The temperatures were dropping as the stars twinkled above them, but the cool air was still a lovely caress across their flight frames tonight. Systems still humming from the aftermath of a damned good fragging, Starscream remained in a wonderful mood while enjoying their evening flight.

“I am telling you two,” he said as he dipped his wings lazily, “just stick with me and things will be looking up for us.”

Skywarp laughed. “You keep acting as if we had anywhere else to be?”

“Speak for yourself.” Thundercracker flicked an aileron in irritation. Something wasn’t right. Starscream being in such a good mood was always an indicator he was up to something, but of course, Skywarp hadn’t picked up on the subtleties.

Thundercracker remained tense tonight, even after all the strut-melting overloads. Then something much more worrying caught his attention.

“Hey, looks like comms are down.”

“Not completely. We are getting a message from the Quintesson ship.” Skywarp flew up alongside him and flicked his wing. “They are asking us for help. They say they are under attack by–”

_“Autobots!”_

Starscream banked and ordered them to follow him, adjusting course to rendezvous with the Quintesson ship. _Prime must have gotten wind of Megatron’s plan. Things are already moving!_ Their desperate calls for aid rang through the command trine’s otherwise silent internal comms.

“Come on,” Starscream ordered his trine, blasting his thrusters full throttle. “We will defend their ships as a show of solidarity for our new Quintesson allies.”

His clever mind was already churning through the possibilities.

Right now the supply division agreement he had with the Autobots was already skewed in favor of the Decepticons; they held larger population numbers due to the Big Push not so long ago. If this was a legitimate attack on the Quintesson, he could absolutely turn this to his advantage. If he played his chips right, he could squeeze the Autobots just a little tighter once all the plotting was exposed and the tempest blew over.

Decision made, Starscream opened a comm line to the Quintesson ship. “This is Supreme Leader Starscream of the Decepticon branch of the United Cybertronian Empire. We are approaching to provide aid. What is your situation?”

“That's odd. I don’t see any attackers.” Thundercracker sounded suspicious as they approached the Quintesson ship still hailing them so frantically.

“I don’t like this,” Skywarp mumbled.

“Something’s wrong," Thundercracker said. "Let’s break this off.”

“Oh _please_ ,” Starscream laughed. “The Quintesson are measly techno-organics. I could fly circles around them in my recharge cycle–”

“Message from Soundwave,” Thundercracker interrupted him, “He just set up a new emergency hub.”

“I’m online!" Skywarp crowed, “Tactical data feeds incoming!”

They fell silent as Soundwave’s extremely hasty report flashed across their internal HUDs, complete with data files and vids of attacking Quintesson forces and confirming Iacon was besieged…and _falling_.

One data feed tracked the position of the Quintesson Acquisition fleet already entering the stratosphere as it headed toward to Iacon.

A recording of a shook trooper relaying for a squad commander that both Megatron and Optimus Prime are confirmed captured burst through their audial centers.

_Supreme Leader Starscream located, capture squad in pursuit…_

Directly in front of them, the Quintesson vessel was now in range and they saw the ominous glow of a heavy pulse cannon warming up.

“Ah _hell_ ,” Skywarp said.

They whirled to retreat as one, twisting in well-practiced formation to break off their approach, but it was too late.

They were already too close.

“Quintesson vessel! You will cease all attempts to–”

A blast wave from the main Quintesson ship silenced Starscream as he and his trine mates dropped like stones from the dark sky.

 

* * *

 

The mechs in Iacon’s jails and prisons were already contained and easily dealt with. Sorted and tagged and collared with the rest, they were trundled out to join their brothers and sisters as slaves.

All but one.

Breaking into the maximum security wing and entering a heavily secured prison cell, the acquisition squad commander frowned at the mech dangling before him.

The harnessed Cybertronian prisoner returned his scowl with fearless curiosity, red optics glowing in the dim light.

A slave worker stepped around him and moved towards the prisoner, in a hurry to start the tagging process. He trusted the effectiveness of the electromagnetic pulse far more than the commander did. The smaller creature reached out towards the control panel, but the commander cuffed him away before he could toggle the containment devices off.

“Leave this one.”

The cringing slave immediately fled while the squad commander looked over the hapless Cybertronian. There was something lurking in the mech’s optics he didn’t like. His lips were full and lush, and the smile uncanny. Intentional or not, his malice-filled optics promised all sorts of mayhem. When the trussed up Cybertronian attempted to offer him a disarming demeanor, he shuddered.

 _I think not,_ the squad commander decided.

Vindication for his caution came when the ID confirmation blinked across his optical screen. The warnings regarding this particular mech from Quintessa's files filled his data display to overflowing.

The Cybertronian noted the creature’s tremor of fear, only barely keeping a smile off his face plates. Testing his bindings and finding them unrelenting, he relaxed and settled down to wait. He was certain it was only a matter of time before they released him from the variable voltage harness.

When they did, he just knew he was going to have a _wonderful_ time.

 

* * *

 

Optimus Prime came back online to chaos.

The electric tang of internal fluid was thick in his mouth from where he’d bitten his glossa. He squirmed, hearing sounds of battle outside and upset to discover he was still restrained and unable to struggle. Now added to the effectiveness of the heavy duty stasis cuffs was the massive amount of stray voltage arching through his plating.

Sprawled out on the ground behind him, Megatron groaned and started to stir, and he could see little arcs of bright blue energy flickering across his counterpart’s dark plating.

Optimus grew alarmed to hear enemy troops gathering outside. The racket intensified when they started breaking into the surrounding residences. He could hear them calling in the locations of collapsed mechs while searching the building.

“Megatron,” he managed to choke out. “You must release me. They are coming.”

Struggling to his knees, Megatron groaned. “Prime–”

With a _wham_ , the entrance to his quarters flew open as shock troops and drones forced their way inside.

After reporting the location of the two Cybertronian leaders to recovery teams, one of the shock troops blasted Megatron point blank in the chest plates when he tried to regain his footing, recognizing him for the dangerous opponent he would become if allowed to recover.

Instead, the prudent energy blast sent him crashing back offline.

Optimus remained motionless to avoid being shot. After confirming with a few harsh kicks that both mechs appeared too weak to be troublesome, the enemy team left and continued down the hallway.

Soon after, workers entered to drag them away. Silently fitting them with collars and shackles (the same models the slave workers wore) the blank-faced laborers began loading the new acquisitions onto haulers to be taken to the waiting Quintesson ships.

Across from him and also being processed and loaded, Megatron did his best to fight them. Only partially back online and already trying to thrash, his vocalizer spat static as they carefully restrained him. Shackling his limbs, they took the added precaution of injecting him with some sort of tranquilizer.

After a moment’s hesitation, they injected Optimus too.

Cybertron’s night sky greeted Optimus when they loaded him on his back onto a hauler. The stars were bright above him, their cheerful winking out of place for the horror of the moment. Then the caravan was moving, taking them all away to a fate as of yet undetermined.

Optimus was too securely bound to see Megatron’s face during the short trip to the acquisition ships, but from the corner of his optic he could see the dark frame straining wildly, plating flared with rage. He tried to call out to Megatron, but his vocalizer wouldn’t engage for the stray voltage still coursing through him. His vision grew blurry and his mind reeled from whatever it was they had injected him with.

 _This cannot be happening,_ Optimus thought. Bound flat and helpless on his back plates, he was still dazed when they loaded him along with his old adversary into the Quintesson carrier. He lost sight of Cybertron's night sky as the vessel's loading bay doors closed, the click of locking mechanisms a harsh and foreboding sound.

Beside him, he heard Megatron’s strangled cry.


	4. Subversion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** This story can get very dark, and please be aware of that. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :) 
> 
> Further warnings: Slavery, medical horror, Quintesson doing mean, mean things. Graphic deaths of organic aliens, possible triggery content, please heed all warnings.
> 
>  
> 
> I am blaming the song “Don’t Panic” by Clarity played on loop for the relentlessness.

**ONE YEAR AGO**

Onslaught groaned as he came back online. Sitting up, he smacked at his helm to clear the static in his optical feeds and looked around, realizing with a start that he was in a small, featureless cell.

Countless eons of combat training and experience had him on his pedes half a klik later, instinctively attempting to activate internal weaponry that no longer responded. He was alarmed to find his internal HUD had been tampered with, and he no longer had control over his bodily functions.

Moving around in a tight, anxious circle, he took stock of his surroundings and found them spartan; the bare minimum for survival.

There was a tiny fuel dispenser in the corner, dripping with an odd-smelling paste. At his pedes was a small drain for waste, and other than that, only four walls and a ceiling.

He tested the walls of his cell with harsh kicks and found them formidable, his powerful strikes beneath notice. He startled when an alien monitor in his HUD blinked into existence, a bar across the top of his otherwise locked down internal interface.

Gray in color, the bar began to tick towards the right with every violent motion he made. He didn’t understand its significance, so he ignored it.

The collar around his neck hurt like the pit. Poking at the offensive device, he realized it was welded to his metallic flesh, the nonliving metal stone-cold against his own warm plating. He gritted his denta and tried to rip the collar from around his throat. But when he dug his fingers against it, the device responded by inflicting a powerful shock that lasted several kliks. He crashed to the ground, curling around himself in frantic pain.

Staggering back to his pedes as soon as he was able, he began to pace, not knowing what to do. A few restless joors later a voice sounded above his head, surprising him out of his pacing.

“Kneel.”

Onslaught looked up towards the featureless ceiling, but wasn’t able to locate the source of the voice.

The command came again. “Kneel.”

 _Must be a recessed speaker,_ he thought and the exact way the voice repeated the command suggested it was nothing more than an automated recording.

No doubt they were watching him.

He made an obscene gesture at the ceiling and began hurtling threats and demands at his invisible captors. Not long after the voice went silent.

He spent the rest of the cycle pacing in tight circles, trying to keep from scratching at his collar too harshly. The lights above him were programed for day/night cycles, and eventually he was plunged into darkness, but couldn’t recharge.

The first day was bad, but the second was even worse.

Early the next morning his Allicon handler appeared. The wall shimmered and parted for the handler, and he met the creature that would be directing and controlling him in his slavery to the Quintesson for the unforeseeable future.

The creature was techno-organic, greenish in color and bedecked with heavy armor. Heavy-set with a thick lashing tail, it strode into his cell without the slightest concern for its own safety.

Onslaught immediately stepped forward, aggression evident in every line of his plating. “What _the frag_ is–”

The creature merely snorted at the aggressive approach, and then tapped a control panel on his wrist at his insolent tone.

Onslaught hit the floor again, thrashing.

When the charge ended, he struggled back to his pedes and stumbled back. But when he looked up, the creature was gone, and now the gray bar in his HUD had turned red and was blinking at him. He was certain it was in response to his aggressive actions towards the creature, though he still didn't know what the bar signified and it worried him. It continued to tick farther and farther with his aggressive movements, and he spent the rest of the day walking in circles, confused and angry.

Then the cycle ended, the lights flickered out for the night cycle, and he instantly discovered what the red bar in his HUD meant. The pain was indescribable. He thrashed and screamed as the red bar ticked back to gray with agonizing slowness, mere astro-seconds passing like joors.

When it ended, he came back to himself face down on the ground, internal fluid thick in his intakes where he'd bitten his glossa. Shaking, he laid in the darkness on the cold floor of his cell for some time, stunned and amazed at the turn his life had taken. He thought of his team, and hoped they were having a better time of it then he was.

He awoke when the dim lights brightened to full luminosity, signaling the new cycle. Clambering to his pedes, he felt steadier for the night of rest. After a few moments of deliberation, he forced himself to suck mouthfuls of the fuel-paste dripping from the dispenser. He needed to keep up his strength, and so he swallowed the vile swill down, cringing for the taste.

It wasn’t long before the Allicon returned. This time Onslaught stepped back when he entered, and the creature’s snort of approval sent a surge of fury down his spinal strut.

The Allicon gestured at him and issued a command. “Step forward," and then waited for him to respond.

Onslaught just snorted. “I’m not your pet.”

“No,” the Allicon agreed. “You are a slave, and slaves _obey_.”

Onslaught moved as if to comply, but didn’t stop his forward momentum and with a ferocious lunge he almost made it to the handler before the pain charges dropped him to his knees. Once again he found himself sprawled out on the floor. But that he had nearly reached his handler finally registered him as a real threat, and again the handler left.

They didn’t seem to be in any hurry to play with their new acquisitions, and again he spent the rest of the cycle pacing while eyeing the red bar with dread for the coming night cycle. The bar was ticked deeper into the red this time, and he was almost certain it meant his punishment would last longer.

…Sometimes he hated always being right.

Day four arrived. Again the Allicon returned, but this time with several assistants, as it seemed Onslaught had proven himself too difficult to handle alone.

Onslaught fought against his collar, fought against his handlers, and refused to obey any sort of order, no matter how small. He was a _mech_ , not a slave, and he fought them hard.

But the Allicon were brutal and quickly demonstrated the use and effectiveness of the shock collars. Between them they turned aside all attacks with ease, bashing him back with blunt-force energy weapons and pain sticks.

The shackles helped keep him under control, but the shock collar wired into his neural net was the most effective. With it they could shut him down at any time; either sending him fully offline with a mere touch of a control or sending him to his knees with white hot pain storming through his systems.

When they finally left him, he was shaking. He dragged himself to one of the cell walls, the furthest from the entrance, and propped himself against it. He couldn’t keep from cringing at the red bar blinking in his HUD again, and began unintentionally counting down the joors until the night cycle when it would reset to the sound of his screams.

Not for the first time he found himself worrying about his team. He had no idea where any of the other Combaticons were. His gestalt bond assured him they were still alive, and suffering as he was, but his internal comms were locked down, and he hadn't seen anyone other than the Quintesson since coming back online to his new captivity.

He winced when he couldn't clench his fist for his shaking fingers, and realized he wasn't going to last long like this.

The fifth day they entered his cell, Onslaught ground his denta and lowered his helm.

 

* * *

 

Megatron fought his captors furiously.

The first day he had taken the Allicon that entered his cell by surprise, lighting-fast reflexes propelling him across the cell in a spark-beat, and he almost tore the techno-organic’s head off before the wretch could hit the panel on his arm.

The pain charge dropped him, but the new display bar installed in his locked-down HUD was far, far worse. Prominently displayed at the top of his internal optical interface, he’d ignored it even when it had turned an ominous red. Damaging a handler was a capital offense, and he had discovered the full extent of his punishment when that first cycle ended and the night cycle began.

A full red bar was a character-building experience, and barely half-way through his punishment he had blacked out for the pain. Coming back online in a puddle of his own waste was a sobering moment.

Staring at the gray bar in his HUD, he realized it remained gray during the day and either remained gray or ticked to the red during the cycle. A gray bar did nothing, while the red bar meant punishment; an exquisite agony inflicted across his neural circuits to devastating effect. Delivered from the collar hard-lined into their neural networks, punishment was always served as soon as the night cycle started.

And so when the Allicon entered his cell the next cycle, flanked by several assistants, he stood back warily and didn’t move. But then the alien tried to give him an order, and he refused to obey.

_I am no one’s slave!_

When the Allicon punished him with a pain charge, he surged forward again, but this time didn’t even make it halfway.

They tried again and again every cycle to work him into a state of obedience, but he fought through the pain. Each cycle ended with him unconscious on the floor and each evening he suffered through the bar of red, though its punishment grew less and less lengthy when he ceased all aggressive movements by the fourth day, understanding such empty defiance was ultimately pointless and counterproductive.

But he refused to surrender, and his massive ego and endless fury propped up his resolve, even as the Quintesson continued to provide him new definitions of pain the longer he held out against them.

The fuel-paste ceased dispensing on the fifth day of his aggressive defiance. Low on fuel and aching for the pain, still he fought them.

Seven days into his captivity and he was finally forced to face grim reality; he may not be able to hold out much longer. This morning there was internal fluid in his waste, and his empty fuel tanks were grinding. He glowered at the wall where the Allicon always entered, knowing the monsters would be reappearing soon.

 _I can’t keep going on like this,_ he slowly realized even as his ego recoiled mightily for the thought of obeying the alien filth. But his fuel tanks bleated pitifully and they were starting to drown out his vastly over-inflated belief in his own superiority.

 _Just until they provide fuel,_ he tried to console himself, shaking with hunger and residual pain. Direct defiance was not working, and he needed a new approach. The collar wired directly into his neural network was not something he could overcome, even with his powerful force of will and vast tolerance of pain, the agony inflicted was unbearable.

_I can’t function without fuel. I can’t fight them if I can’t think for their punishment._

The door slid open with a nearly silent whoosh, and his hated controller stepped into the cell again, flanked by his ever-watchful assistants.

Megatron eyed them warily, his frame still shaking, low fuel warnings blaring in his HUD and the bar still gray, but dangerously close to ticking over into the red.

“Step forward.” The Allicon ordered for the umpteenth time that week.

Megatron snarled, but one shaking pede extended and clunked back down as he reluctantly took one step forward, his spark throbbing for the humiliation, though he suspected this was only the beginning.

The Allicon smiled encouragement and rewarded him by adding a tick of gray to his bar, and that was how it started, one tiny concession at a time as they wore him down… cycle after cycle.

 

* * *

 

“Obey,” the Allicon ordered.

Gesturing at the cringing organic cowering in its restraints, the controller made a harsh motion, his desire clear.

Sideswipe knew better than to try to use the weapon clenched in his servos against his handler, but he refused to obey his commands.

“Frag you!” Sideswipe answered, and went down under the shock from his collar.

In a cell not so far away, Sunstreaker fell to his knees as well, the electric pain a jolt across his spark. As spark brothers, they shared faint shadows of each other’s pain while in close proximity. The little flickers of discomfort varied depending on the severity of the pain of the other. Ever since sparkling-hood they have been connected this way, and it meant they had high tolerance for it.

But the pain inflicted across their neural nets was far beyond anything they had experienced before. It crossed the boundaries of their shared but separated sparks as if there was no distance between them, as if their sparks were housed in one tormented frame.

Neither twin had seen the other for many cycles, but they knew through the spark bond that their experiences with the Quintesson were very similar.

Training involved only basic commands at first, and Sideswipe had obeyed after only a cycle of punishment, if only for his twin's sake.

Sunstreaker had done the same.

But then the training took a dark turn, and included killing organics on the Allicon's orders. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had both refused. That cycle had been one of the worst, and continued to degrade as they both refused to slaughter helpless innocents.

Now Sideswipe took the brunt of the pain as Sunstreaker had broken first; pain no longer streamed from his side of their shared spark as often.

Some cycles went by without pain from his brother's side at all; sheer luxury. But it was a dark relief, as Sideswipe knew it meant his brother was killing the organics as the Allicon ordered.

Even the little ones.

He’d refused and was holding out... but he wasn’t sure how long he could last. For now the flex of his finger on a trigger was worse to him then what these miserable Quintesson were inflicting, but his spark tightened as the cycles passed. He was afraid he was going to discover just what it would take to break him, as the training cycles were relentless.

So far he had discovered a layer of steel within himself he never knew he possessed.

"Obey, and receive the mercy of the Masters," the Allicon insisted, blunt green fingers hovering over the control panel on his wrist, a hot smell wafting from the overworked device.

“Frag you,” the red twin groaned and down he went again.

Hate flared across his spark for the Allicon, reflecting back from Sunstreaker for his own tormentor. They couldn’t speak to each other, but they didn’t need words for this.

Even beyond his Autobot training, Sideswipe knew he wouldn’t have stooped to kill the organics. He chaffed under such authority, and he would have refused to obey anyway.

At least for as long as he could.

 

* * *

 

“I won't do it,” Optimus Prime rumbled, his deep voice harsh and unrelenting.

At his pedes, the organic chained to the floor wasn't moving; unresponsive and in a deep state of shock. One of his legs was bent at an odd angle, the bone jutting grotesquely, and Optimus was certain the injury was why this organic was ear-marked for death.

A death _he_ was to deliver, with the weapon provided and on the Allicon’s order. They meant to make a butcher of him. “I refuse,” Optimus said, and threw the blunt weapon to the side.

“You will obey,” the Allicon roared at him. “You will obey the Masters or die!”

Optimus stared the Allicon down, looming over the smaller creature. “Then _kill me_.”

They couldn't make him into a murderer, even with all their controls welded and clenched across and within his frame, even with their pain charges and pain sticks and electro-whips, they couldn’t _actually_ make him and he wouldn't do it.

A queasy feeling crawled across his chest plates, and he rubbed at the space where the Matrix used to reside.

The Matrix had been destroyed in the battle with D-Void, and the Quintesson had taken the empty shell from him, disappointed the artifact no longer functioned. Through his dim link to the Afterspark, he had felt that they were near Cybertron’s core, and that something dreadful was happening. The Quintesson’s foul tentacles were all around the Core and the precious life-force of the planet itself recoiled from them.

Optimus had never felt such a reaction before. “What is happening to the Core of our world? What are you doing to it?” They had responded to his demands with punishment and refused to answer him.

Then five cycles ago he had been knocked unconscious when its exquisite consciousness expanded rapidly, then guttered out. He sensed the Core had exploded after straining for long cycles. He realized they must have harmed it somehow, and after many insistent questions they finally explained to him that the Masters had intended to use the Core to generate more Cybertronians, but when they had tried to harness it, the Core had refused them.

“What do you mean they tried to _harness_ it? I could feel the Core’s distress through my link to the Afterspark, and now it has gone silent…what have you _done_ to my world?”

But the Allicon had refused to provide any further details and his last words on the subject were more a warning than anything else.

“The Masters need more Cybertronian war-mechs, and they have failed to harness the Core to generate them. So I will warn you again. If you refuse to obey” – he pointed at the cowering organic – “you will be less valuable to the Masters.”

“That is _hardly_ a threat worth the lives of innocents-”

The Allicon had gestured at him harshly. “They will find another use for you.”

So far the cryptic threat hadn’t materialized, as cycle after cycle he was brought to this training room and ordered to murder the cowering organics they brought before him.

But Optimus Prime refused to yield. He would not kill the pitiful being at his pedes. The Allicon snorted and shot the organic dead, even as Optimus charged towards him, hot with anger. He hit the floor for the umpteenth time that day, twitching miserably. But what they wanted from him was far worse, and he refused them.

He would rather suffer.

 

* * *

 

Deca-cycles spent in captivity, and Starscream was starting to obey even the more complex commands from his Allicon, for sheer boredom.

Oh he fought, and fought hard those first few cycles. But soon it became crystal clear to him – a boot on his neck and pain surging through him – that defeating the Quintesson would require more than mindless thrashing.

And so he began to obey, even while trying to figure out some way to escape. The pain and punishment ceased immediately as he followed their every command.

Finding their training modules boring, the seeker found himself destroying random chained organics in whatever manner the Allicon demanded, then graduating to masses of targets. He obliterated them with ease, and they moved him on to ground maneuvers; charging, blocking, fighting in hand to hand combat.

It was the most mundane of sparkling-play for a warrior of his caliber, and he advised them of this as often as possible, at the highest decibels he could manage. Starscream could manage _very_ high decibels, to his Allicon’s intense irritation.

Then one cycle they removed the fetters on his wings and they let him fly.

It was sheer joy to take to the sky again, even for nothing more than an indoor training exercise. But they would only let him fly if he obeyed during the training sessions, which became more and more elaborate as he swiftly ascended through their training levels.

“Excellent!” his Allicon shouted when he completed a complex series of maneuvers, obliterating his targets with grace and style, his every movement sleek with harsh symmetry.

The Allicon approached him as he landed and transformed. Striding forward without a trace of concern, he reached toward the gleaming panel of a white wing and patted Starscream like he would a well-behaved dog. “You have completed this training module ahead of schedule! The Masters will be most pleased!”

The vile-looking organic laid a possessive hand on the jet’s frame, the clammy touch on one of his most sensitive erogenous zones making Starscream's circuits crawl. The gesture of derogatory familiarity grated against his ego and filled him with loathing.

The seeker obeyed as he must, but one thing they hadn’t broken him of was his harsh vocalizer. He simply could not obey without endless snarking commentary. That was the nature of the mechanism, and asking him to spend each miserable day in silence was unrealistic.

Starscream wouldn’t stop with the withering tones, even after his controller spent an entire afternoon trying to break him of the habit. He had endured, even when reduced to the point of coughing withering-sounding _static_ until the Allicon finally admitted defeat, the control panel on his wrist smoking and sparking from overuse.

Starscream’s optics flared with loathing as he whirled around, ripping his wing away from the sticky hand. “Touch me again, _organic_ , and you will regret it.”

The pain charge hit for his insolence, and Starscream fell to his knees. Hitting the ground hard, his frame convulsed and hate coiled his spark just a little tighter. He choked back cries of pain, unwilling to give the miserable creature the satisfaction.

And then the Allicon stepped forward, a triumphant smile across his vile face, and laid his hand back on Starscream’s shaking wing.

The techno-organic didn’t understand the connotation or deeper meaning of his actions; the interplay of seeker wings and intimacy was beyond his knowledge. But the touch was still intimate all the same, the violation committed on a personal level.

“I will do with you as I please,” the Allicon assured him, fingers tightening on the delicate wing panel to grind in his point. Then he reached out and patted the seeker on his helm and stepped away.

Grinding further insult into injury, the enemy turned his back to Starscream in the oldest insult known to Decepticon kind; exposing a vulnerable section of one's frame without the slightest caution or fear. It was a gesture of deep disrespect. Had he understood the nature of the mech he controlled, perhaps he may not have been so blasé.

Maybe he knew what his actions meant or maybe he didn’t; but it didn’t matter. It was the truth either way, and Starscream stared after his retreating back, optics dilating to their widest setting.

_You will pay for that. No matter what it takes, you will pay._

_I will make you regret this._

 

* * *

 

 

**TEN MONTHS AGO**

Megatron grew concerned when the chamber they forced him towards was not another training room, but a medical one.

He skidded to a halt, even as his controller stabbed him with a pain-stick and threatened him with pain charges. He stumbled forward but then whirled on them, intent on escape.

They were prepping a medical table, and the last time he had endured a medical procedure was the evening of his capture. They had installed the permanent shock collar that night, welded flush to his plating and wired into his neural network.

The cutting and slicing and wiring and welding had been performed without the slightest concern or consideration for pain, and he had suffered brutally under their careless instruments. That pain was different than the shock collar, but it was just as horrific, and he wasn’t going to lie down on that table without a fight.

Unfortunately, they had already considered that possibility.

His Allicon activated the shutdown feature on the shock collar as several of his assistants stepped forward. Dragging him towards the table as he twitched, his motor synapses interrupted, they hefted him up and began to apply the hefty restraints.

Then the Quintesson technicians started examining him. They poked and prodded at him, and began running CNA scans to pick through his intimate code with their inquisitive tentacles.

“Guardian code present in recessive CNA strands, but currently inactive,” one of the techs noted on a data pad and then stepped away.

“What are you doing to me?” Megatron snarled as he fought his restraints, though struggling was useless. The technicians ignored him, too busy with their task to bother with him.

It was his Allicon that answered.

The controller had been a little more talkative after the warbuild he controlled had proven to be _most_ adept at butchery. The Masters were extremely pleased with this particular acquisition, and that propelled the Allicon into a particular state of fame. Such attention was good for his aspirations for greater status and rank, and he was feeling generous. After asking the technicians a few basic questions, he snorted in understanding and then walked up to stand next to Megatron’s helm, yellow eyes half-lidded in satisfaction.

“The team of scientists assigned to bring Cybertron’s core under control have failed. _Spectacularly_ so.” The Allicon chuckled, a _horf-horf-horf_ sound as amusement thrilled through him. Such monumental failure would mean death or worse for that particular team. Mishandling such a valuable asset was a crime punishable by death, even for the Judges.

 _The profit margins must be maintained above all_ , he thought to himself with approval. No one was exempt from the judgment of the Imperial Asset Inquisitors, _hallowed be thy tendrils_.

“What do you mean?” Megatron hissed while watching the techs prepping tools and scanners and he did not like the look of any of the devices they were preparing.

The Allicon snorted at the questioning, but deigned to answer. “The science sector assured the Grand Acquisition Judges that harvesting new Cybertronian sparks was a simple matter of harnessing Cybertron's Core."

"Tasked to take control of the Core and begin production, the restoration team failed to restrain it. The Life-core fought their attempts to reprogram it, and while forcing it into a production mode, they overburdened the central generators. Their fumbling triggered a feedback explosion that took Cybertron’s central computing system offline.”

“ _Vector Sigma_ ,” Megatron breathed, horrified.

The Allicon grunted in confirmation. “It is sentient and refuses to re-activate. Without it, we cannot trigger hotspots and that team’s fumbling has delayed the Harvest.”

“Harvest,” Megatron repeated, the glyph rolling off his glossa like rancid energon. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

The Allicon waved at him dismissively, unconcerned. “I am getting there. Without a harvest of sparks, acquiring more slave-soldiers becomes difficult. Now we must explore other methods of increasing assets, _thus_ your visit to the medical center today.”

The Allicon raised his thick hands in a _told you I was getting there_ manner of gesture.

Megatron didn’t like the implications of that statement in the slightest, and then the technicians started working on him in earnest. First, they scanned him with multiple devices; the techs tugging and poking at his armor. He struggled when they pulled out drills and various cutting tools. Warming them up, they began setting up for what looked like some kind of surgery.

He started to protest but his Allicon, tired of interacting with him, stuffed a silencer into his intakes to quiet him. Then they removed his chest plating and his intimate panels and poked around his spark with various implements. His optics dilated wide as they exposed and examined his most intimate components.

“Samples only,” The Allicon warned, sounding worried. “We have an important training exercise immediately after. The Assessor will be present to monitor my progress, and this asset must be functional.”

The tech that force-extended Megatron’s spike nodded and took hold of the connector while Megatron jerked in his restraints for the touch. Snarling curses that didn’t make it past his gag, his fury mixed with abject humiliation as the techs continued to work around him.

_I will kill every last one of you!_

The tech began to manipulate the heavy spike held firm between his tendrils, inserting a lubricated sample rod down his sensitive spike opening, feeding the wriggling tentacle-probe in inch by inch.

Megatron squirmed wildly for the sensation, bewildered and horrified.

Then another tech approached with a thick probe, also coated in synthetic lubricant. The tech inserted the ominous-looking device into his valve moments later, the metal cold and scraping against his hyper-sensitive components, stretching his unsuspecting rim wide.

Even more distracting was the wet, wriggling probe working its way deeper and deeper down into his sensitive spike slit.

_That does not go in there!_

He couldn’t stop the strangled whine from escaping at the sensations, not muffled enough by the gag to be completely silent. This subjugation and degradation was beyond anything he had ever endured before and he struggled to process what was happening to him.

“Asset lacks a functional gestation tank,” one of the techs called out while studying the hard scans of Megatron’s internals.

Megatron swallowed against the moan now rattling around his throat, praying these monsters would hurry and finish with him. He was unable to focus on the prattle around him for the pulsing throb that made his spike ache with unwanted charge.

The first tech frowned. “Installation would be possible, but costly.”

“Asset would be a good candidate for the augmented guardian-protocol as only minor CNA adjustment would be necessary,” the second tech suggested to the Imperial Accountant, the Quintesson deciding Megatron’s fate. The second tech double-checked the scans and agreed. They both stepped away, the first tech tapping at a data pad, preparing the results for further review.

“You are fortunate,” the Allicon muttered while watching Megatron’s frantic squirming with disinterest. He was more intent on listening to the chatter between the techs and the Imperial Accountant behind them. “It appears your value as a war-mech outstrips your usefulness as a breeder. You will be branded as sire only, at least for now.”

Megatron wasn't feeling fortunate by any means.

He groaned when the end of the probe finally made it to his transfluid sac and began draining it for sampling, the suction generating a strong vibration through his inner spike slit, which was not designed for such intrusion. Gleaming beads of pre-fluid were bubbling up and out around the moving tendril, further lubricating the probe.

The Allicon reached out with blunt, curious fingers and squeezed the spikehead. He pulled back immediately when zapped by the furious crackle-charge racing along the straining, bobbing connector while Megatron made a strangled cry for the squeeze to his sensitive tip, the opening stretched wide for the probe. The tendril continued to move inside him, pulsing for the suction and his spike pressurized even tighter for the stimulation.

The technician tapped a control and there was a pulse from the probe lodged in his valve, but the energy provided was not energon-based. His valve had no idea what to do with the entirely unspike-like intruder with its unrecognizable energy charge.

He was wildly uncomfortable. Both ports tormented mercilessly, his calipers engaged in an unhappy rhythm while trying to oust the probe. Then the technician tapped the control again and a second pulse-burst sent a shock through his systems. Finally the probe withdrew from his valve, the sample collected.

The tendril in his spike slit remained, however, and he felt the familiar tightening across his lower plating and belly. Mortification for his frame’s witless betrayal roared hot through his circuit lines and then he arched back and writhed… groaning around the gag when his hip struts clanged against their restraints and he spilled over, bright pink transfluid leaking out around the still moving tendril.

Finally they retracted the device, the tendril retracting with a sharp flick, all at once, sending an electric tingle up his back strut. The techs didn’t seem to notice. They were finishing up, manipulating his plating and protective seals around his spark to collect the last few spark-energy samples for further analysis.

“One last test,” the tech assured the nervous Allicon.

The technician activated a scanner while attaching a small, magnetized disk to Megatron’s helm, and watched the results. Megatron’s expression changed from wild hatred to one of dazed confusion. The tech nodded in approval, and then removed the device, stepping away.

Megatron immediately returned to his normal functioning with a jolt, remembering only confusion, but now sporting a raging helm ache for whatever they had tested on him. He chewed on his gag in fury, completely beside himself with humiliated rage.

Meanwhile, his Allicon confirmed something with one of the techs and then nodded. He stepped toward a tray with two branding devices resting on it. One looked like an inverted symbol ψ, while the other resembled ύ. Selecting the inverted one, the handler activated the device, which began to glow white hot.

Megatron’s wild optics further dilated while staring at the approaching implement, glowing far hotter than necessary for a typical surface brand.

The Allicon pressed the inverted brand into his hip plating and held firm. Marking him as guardian-protocol, the device burned deep and he choked around the gag, a long, strangling sound. Oral fluid dripped down the corner of his mouth as he worked his intakes for the burn, now sinking past his protective armor and deep into his delicate protoform mesh.

Finally, the medical exam was complete and the horror seemed to end.

Watching him for any signs of defiance and finding none, they let him up. Megatron stumbled to his pedes, his limbs shaking, and stood for a long moment. He looked the picture of calm, though he could do nothing for his ventilations. The soft in-vents escaped his normally iron control; short gasping pulls at breath for the shock of his mistreatment.

Then he closed his burning optics into slits, making a show of dropping his helm in subservience, even as his intakes worked and his glossa churned the oral lubricants in his mouth into a froth.

The Allicon handler looked pleased and gestured him forward. “Now to the training chamber... we have an appointment with the Assessor. We must not disappoint the Masters.”

He still sounded anxious for the scheduled inspection. His assistants stepped in around him and Megatron took a few docile steps forward, taking his standard place. He closed as much distance between himself and his torturer as possible, keeping his helm downcast.

Then, while the controllers were distracted, he _lunged_.

Hatred fueled his violence as his murderous servos wrapped around the Allicon’s thick neck. Quicker then quick he twisted, feeling the Allicon's cords and cables and the thick strut surrender to his rage. There was no time to savor the moment as the assistants were already reacting, but the mortal terror filling his tormentor's eyes was most gratifying as he snapped the monster’s neck.

To his eternal regret, the assistants shut him down before he could properly finish off his Allicon. One of them slapped the control on his wrist and lightening raced up his frame, ending his rampage.

When he awoke in his cell later, it was to snarling handlers, pain charges, a full bar of red, and electro-whip scorch marks all down his plating. But amidst the reprisals, Megatron saw his Allicon gingerly fingering his repaired neck, and felt a ghost-touch of satisfaction before falling back unconscious.

The Allicon’s optics burned in fury. “This asset stays in solitary for now. It is clear far more training is required.”

 

* * *

 

**FIVE MONTHS AGO**

The day Onslaught finished his basic training, everything changed. The Allicon escorted him to a new cell and prodded him inside. He felt wild elation when he saw it was already filled with two other mechs.

“Frag _yes_!” Brawl roared and charged him.

Brawl promptly tackle-hugged them right into the electro-bars of their new cell by accident. They both staggered back from the punishing jolt, but Onslaught wouldn’t relinquish his grip, and both mechs clamped tightly together in sheer delight and renewed comradery.

…Until they remembered hugging wasn’t _Decepticon_ , and broke away from each other with embarrassed engine rumbles and polite coughs.

The electro-bars had a harsh bite to them, but even those were a far better sight then the featureless gray walls they had been staring at since their capture. Onslaught could see past them and counted many other mechs in the cells around them. Finding himself surrounded by other Cybertronians was heartening. Less heartening was the sight of the other mech sharing his cell.

Breakdown was not his favorite Decepticon, and he snorted at him in place of a real greeting. _Why did it have to be a Stunticon?_

But even that couldn’t put a damper on his good mood... once he recovered from the furious shock the cell bars gave him, anyway.

“You alright?” Onslaught demanded, already standing taller now that he had responsibilities again. He began by immediately re-taking control of his subordinate, a resumption of authority which the other Combaticon didn’t question.

Brawl scowled behind his blast mask. “Frag no. You?”

Onslaught dropped his helm, but only a micron. Functioning as a slave and obeying the Quintesson hurt his pride and no…he wasn’t alright. But looking up into the excited visor of his subordinate, he did feel marginally better, and admitted so.

“Better now. Tell me what happened to you. I want a full report.”

Brawl launched into a rambling recount of his experiences while standing much closer to Onslaught then propriety should allow. But Onslaught didn’t bother to step back and was even having difficulty keeping himself from clamping his servo over his team mate’s shoulder, if only to convince himself he really was back among proper Cybertronians.

Solitary confinement did not agree with him, and he could tell Brawl felt the same way.

While Brawl talked, the Allicon escorted more and more mechs to the cell block. Dropping them off in the cells around them; they stopped only to snarl at the slaves and warn them to be quiet as disruptions will be punished.

 _They must be bringing everyone who finishes basic training here,_ Onslaught realized. He kept an optic out for the rest of his team while Brawl filled him in on what had happened, with Breakdown chiming in here and there to add a few details.

Unfortunately it was no more then what he already knew: obey and function from day to day, disobey and suffer worlds of pain until they broke and fell back into obedience. Still no information on where they were going or what was going to happen to them. The Allicon were tight-lipped, generally refusing to interact beyond commands and the occasional word of praise, condescendingly given when an order was properly obeyed.

His own Allicon refused to indulge in chatter of any type and was quick to punish anything other than strict obedience.

“Yeah,” Brawl muttered. “Mine’s the same. Always shocking me and stabbing me with that stupid stick of his.”

Breakdown looked at the two Combaticons comparing notes with confusion. “You could see them?”

Two incredulous helms swiveled to look at him. “You _didn’t_?”

“Well today, yes, obviously,” Breakdown said defensively and then shook his helm. “But not before they brought me here.”

Onslaught just stared at him for a moment. “Explain.”

“When I woke up, the first thing I heard was a command to kneel, so I did. Then it had me walk around in a circle and touch my helm, and other stupid little things. But if I complained I felt a zap from my collar, so I stopped arguing and–”

At the Combaticon’s shared look of disgust, he winced and stopped talking.

 

* * *

 

The organic’s head exploded under the weapon blast.

“Do you not see the futility?” The Allicon asked, shaking his thick head. “They die either way. You do nothing more than fulfill the inevitable. Your resistance is useless and your punishment needless; obey and the pain will cease.”

Optimus Prime glowered at him, his spark aching for the headless, twitching organic dragged from the training chamber. He didn’t answer, even as another slave was brought into the room.

Yet another organic took the dead one’s place, this one very young. Something was wrong with her wet, darting eyes; the lenses didn’t focus properly.

He was beginning to see a pattern in the organics brought before him. Always the same species, a green-skinned, heavy set race with powerful limbs. He recognized them as the same race as the shock troops that had overwhelmed them on Cybertron. They were clearly Quintesson owned and likely mass-produced as cannon fodder.

The individuals brought before him were always very old, very young with malformations, or damaged…the old and sick and injured. The children were the worst, like the little one before him now. The youngster had toddled in after the worker slave and was far too young to understand the situation. She peered up at him, blinking through large eyes that struggled to focus on his face plates.

The Allicon didn’t even bother to chain her down.

Optimus Prime stared down his tormentor as his lip plating thinned to a harsh line, loathing every moment of this agonizing captivity. He had finally stopped begging for their lives, knowing nothing would move the heartless Allicon standing before him. The handler was insistent; holding out a weapon for him to take.

This happened in endless repetition, and every time he refused the order... and every time the organic slaves always fell murdered at his pedes.

_They would make a butcher of me._

Optimus reached out with shaking servos and took the weapon from the triumphant Allicon. He knew better than to try and turn it against the handler. He had tried that exactly once, only to discover it was controlled by remote, and only fired when pointed at an appropriate target. Instead he broke it across his knee, splintering the weapon into two pieces and threw them back at his handler with harsh optics.

_I will not yield._

He collapsed to the floor a klik later as the shock collar engaged, and the bar in his HUD ticked further into the red. The youngster began to comprehend something horrible was happening and began to squall loudly.

The Allicon took aim at the youngster with his personal blaster. “Spare yourself this misery,” he hissed to the shaking mech at his feet. “Do you not understand the situation? Obedience brings mercy. Disobedience brings punishment.”

Optimus didn’t answer as the pain charge ebbed, focusing on his ventilations instead, his spark aching at the squealing cries of distress from the little organic he could do nothing to save.

“A military mech has value and maintains dignity,” the Allicon lied, however halfway. Military slaves _were_ valuable … “I promise you the alternative will be vastly worse. This one is useless to the Masters and will die either way, but you might know the master’s mercy, if you will but obey.”

Optimus shook his helm and bared his denta at the Allicon. “I … will not … yield,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

The Allicon narrowed his yellowish eyes and pulled the trigger.


	5. Quandary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Megatron is offered a prime opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** This story can get very dark, and please be aware of that. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :) 
> 
> Warnings: Quintessons being heartless monsters that do mean things: inappropriate touches, punishment, other meanness…

**FOUR MONTHS AGO**

The chamber was small, unadorned, and meant for one purpose, and Optimus Prime jolted when the door finally opened. The aperture appeared from the otherwise seamless wall of the cell as the panels parted with a _swish_.

There was a familiar shape standing in the entrance, and Megatron’s anxiety deepened as his Allicon handlers prodded him forward. Covered with dents and cuts, he still dared to glare back at them as he reluctantly entered the chamber.

Recognizing his old adversary, Optimus instinctively tried to get to his pedes. It was a futile attempt. Heavy bindings kept him immobile and magnetized to the floor, and no amount of struggling moved them.

Forced to remain on his hands and knees, Optimus adjusted himself into the most dignified position possible. Alas, there was nothing he could do for the magnetized shackles at his knee joints that forced his thighs wide in a lurid display; his handlers had force-retracted his intimate panels for the occasion.

That Megatron had seen his intimate ports before did nothing to blunt the humiliation.

Megatron hesitated, sliding to a halt when he saw Prime. Stunned red eyes took in the bound form. The implications of his forced posture were not lost on Megatron, and Optimus, mortified, scraped his fingers over the smooth metal floor.

The unexpected sight gave Megatron pause. He seemed about to say something and then his handler stabbed him with the business end of a pain stick for his hesitation. He stumbled forward with a hiss of pain and surprise. He nearly went down to one knee as the Allicon dragged him towards the other slave.

Megatron steadied himself and stood tall. Stewing in his hate, he watched as his handler connected his chains to the central hook holding his fellow captive down. Then his controller stepped towards Optimus, checking his chains and shackles. Careless, the controller waved his pain-stick around without thought.

Optimus watched the buzzing tip warily, no stranger to that particular device. Handled roughly, he winced for the harsh jerk on his chains as the controller tested them. Satisfied with the restraints, the Allicon grinned down at Optimus. Then and without warning, he jammed blunt, green fingers into the valve on display and wiggled them in amusement.

“Is that necessary?” Optimus growled over his shoulder. His plating was clenched, tight and resentful. _Are you not as much a slave as I?_

The Allicon ignored him.

Although he was just as much a slave as Optimus was, there was no consideration offered. No mercy for a fellow slave, just as the Allicon would receive no mercy from _his_ superiors.

Every Allicon slave started life at the bottom, choking on the vilest of treatment. Struggling up the ranks towards greater control, any joy in life was always at the expense of subordinates. Any Allicon that managed to reach the highest levels of authority lost any sense of compassion for subordinates by sheer necessity. In this way, the Quintesson hierarchy sloughed the misery downhill. The higher tiered Allicon abused the lesser and so the tainted system trudged on. Megatron’s controller was no different and he enjoyed his small measure of power over the two Cybertronians.

Optimus’ engine growled.

The feel of the fingers in his port and the accompanying squelch infuriated him. He couldn't help his frame's automatic responses to the unwanted touch. Lubricant dripped to the floor even as he tried to fight against the fingers within him.

Again and again, he thrashed in his bonds, but they held firm.  Then he winced as the bar in his HUD filled another tick. He stopped fighting then, knowing the effort was futile. He was only making things worse for himself, for no gain. His blue and red plating tucked close to his frame and then flared again as the Allicon continued to tease his intimate port.

The only other sound in the room was of grinding denta. Megatron looked as repulsed as Optimus felt and only scowled as the Allicon offered him a nasty grin. This was the first time Megatron had seen Optimus since their capture. Though he was relieved Optimus was still alive, he regretted being unable to do more than watch as his counterpart was mistreated.

Finally, the Allicon seemed satisfied.

Stepping back and away, the Allicon sniffed at his dripping fingers with an amused snort. Then he pointed at Optimus and turned towards Megatron. "All yours," the Allicon grunted. The accompanying gesture was lewd as he had a low opinion of Cybertronians for such matters. He left without the slightest concern they might disobey him. The two enslaved mechs watched with relief as he and his assistants finally left.

A long moment of silence passed and then Megatron took a few steps forward. He was startled when the chain-length around his leg had less give then expected. It aggravated an injury, and he collapsed and fell to the floor with a grunt. The ground shuddered with the force of his fall, and Optimus winced.

“Prime,” Megatron greeted his old enemy ruefully while sprawled out over the floor.

Optimus matched his tone. “Megatron.” He shifted his weight and craned his neck cables, straining to see Megatron from his position on the floor.

Looking bedraggled and exhausted, Megatron’s powerful frame had seen better days. Heavy scratches and scuffs covered him from head to pedes, and he was in desperate need of basic maintenance. Sympathy pulsed through Optimus when the battered warbuild dragged his fingers along his irritating collar, the movement automatic and stopping just short of scratching at it.

Megatron curled over and sat up, rubbing at his knee joint. “Do they not repair you?” Optimus asked. There was concern in his soft rumble.

“Only to a point,” Megatron said with a scowl. “Their medical ships are inadequate, and they rely on drones for most repairs. This is an older injury that does not heal well. I keep reopening it during campaigns.”

“You kill for them.” There was a quiet accusation in his tone.

Megatron made a dismissive gesture. “Frankly Prime, dead organics are the least of my worries.”

“Part of our peace agreement was the cession of all unprovoked hostilities towards alien races. Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, and by helping the Quintesson enslave others we only perpetuate their evil. It is our duty to refuse their orders.”

“I only kill for them when they force it of me,” Megatron answered while shaking his helm in amazement. He didn’t feel like arguing, but Prime’s patented catch phrase was especially ironic today; it was being delivered by a mech forced by sentient beings to display in lewd offering.

“You could refuse.”

“And how has that been working out for you?” Megatron glanced over at him and jerked his helm towards the exposed intimate ports to further grind in his point.

Optimus frowned and looked away, his face burning with humiliation. Standing resolute for what he believed in did carry a heavy cost and he knew that; he paid that price every day.

But Megatron shook his head immediately thereafter, already regretting his harsh words. “Prime, _enough_. I don't want to argue… I am pleased to see you.”

Optimus just sighed and struggled to settle down, squirming around with difficulty. He'd been waiting here for joors and his limbs ached.

Megatron didn’t move, and only when Optimus finally stopped watching him did his gaze drop to the valve below. The white biolights were bright against blue mesh, the rim slightly parted with the inner depths only barely visible. Plush and wet looking, the port remained every bit as alluring as the last time he had seen it.

There was a strong scent in the air, wafting up from the mech forced to present before him. He couldn’t place it, though it wasn’t unpleasant…like an engine running hot and intermingled with Optimus’ normal scent, only much stronger.

Megatron had remained in solitary after his attack on his Allicon. Though his tiny cell was located in the same block with the communal cells, he was too far away to communicate with anyone.

It was a bitter punishment for him as he was rather gregarious by nature. He craved interaction with others, and the long cycles spent in solitude were the worst. Sometimes, when he strained his audials to their limit, he thought he could hear faint echoes of his fellow Cybertronians in the distance.

It was a particular form of torment.

The only reprieve for his loneliness was during the hectic battles of Quintesson campaigns, or when his fellow prisoners dared to throw one of their precious few contraband data disks into his cell. He would snatch at the little device, frantic to keep it hidden from the guards. He would listen to recorded messages with relish and then record his replies, always filling the device with his thoughts. Then he would throw the disks back to the closest cell so his glyphs could be shared with others.

He often thought of Prime while waiting in his lonely cell between the Quintesson’s abysmal campaigns. His processor sometimes visited his memory-files of their interfacing, but he never expected to see Prime like _this_.

Still, he longed to touch the other mech, even though this situation was entirely inappropriate.

Giving in to his aching spark, Megatron reached out and touched along the blue and red plating, skirting around the ύ symbol burned into his thigh. Hesitant, he stroked along the back strut, the treasured memory-file of their last encounter playing behind his optics. But he saw Optimus flinch and reluctantly withdrew his hand.

Another long, awkward moment passed until Megatron swallowed thickly and looked away. Both of them knew what the Quintesson wanted, and eventually the chains, shackles, and collar would not allow them any choice in the matter. Tired of being bound to the floor, Optimus assumed the worst of his old adversary, and wished Megatron would just… _get on_ with it.

“Mm.” Megatron's engine rumbled and his expression turned thoughtful.

Optimus tested his restraints again as Megatron stepped out from behind him, placing each pede with care to avoid aggravating his knee joint. Walking until he reached the end of his fetter, he stopped and the rattling of his stout bindings slowed and stilled. He stood there for a time, his optics unfocused as his mind wandered … adrift in some internal reverie ... and then he spoke.

“I dreamt of you, recently.” 

Optimus glanced at him with a sharp expression, but didn’t answer. Curious for the mood of the other mech, Optimus tried to extend his electromagnetic field to get a sense of him, but was unable to reach so far.

“You and I were walking together along some agreeable location … a beach. Hedonia, I think,” and Megatron’s voice sounded soft and distant. “We were talking. You were … laughing.”

“Sounds like a pleasant dream,” Optimus replied quietly. “It is unfortunate our reality is so disagreeable.” He regretted he couldn’t sense Megatron, as the other captive’s powerful fields remained close to his body.

“Indeed,” Megatron agreed, but he made no move to approach. "Perhaps I will take you there some day. We could both use some peace."

 _He sounds lonely,_ and Optimus well knew the feeling. Even with all the trouble Megatron had caused him over the eons, they were both still Cybertronian. The designation meant far more than it used to now that they both languished in this captivity. They had found solidarity at last, if only in mutual suffering, and for some time silence reigned between them.

“What are you going to do?” Optimus finally asked. A quiet undertone crept into his vocalizer; a mixture of desperation for his helplessness and loneliness every bit as potent as Megatron's earlier sentiments.

“Nothing,” Megatron assured him without hesitation. “Absolutely nothing. If they want me to violate you they will have to force it of me.” _And that is likely coming_ , was the shared, unspoken worry between them.

Optimus tilted his helm back and blinked in surprise. Megatron didn’t dignify the assumption in his expression with a response, but he did have a question. One consequence of his restraint that required clarification; one expected reaction from the Quintesson he must confirm with Prime.

“Do you know what the red bar means,” Megatron asked, “the one across the top of their control display?” He felt certain Prime was as familiar with it as he was, but had to ask.

“I do,” Optimus confirmed as his tone dropped. He fully understood their miserable situation. The faint flicker of relief that Megatron intended to respect his frame was short-lived, overshadowed by what would happen when the cycle ended.

Megatron heard the dread in his vocalizer even as he watched the bar tick towards the red. It had been deca-cycles since he had been so defiant to suffer under the red bar, as he worked to maintain the gray as best he could. The pain was hard-wired into his very circuits, and simply unbearable, even for him. But the Quintesson wanted something from them; the interaction they were refusing would be punished if not completed.

Megatron said as much, asking Optimus what he wanted, and when he didn’t answer, Megatron made that noise again.

“Very well.”

Then Megatron settled across from Optimus, sliding down until his aft hit the floor with a quiet _click_. He just wanted to be sure Optimus understood exactly what they would be enduring tonight, as a result of his defiance of their wretched masters. He'd long ached for the comfort of Optimus’ company and so he stayed close, while still sitting far enough away from his old adversary as to be entirely polite.

From his position on the floor, Megatron felt warmth spread across his spark when Optimus’ optics softened and his posture relaxed.

 

* * *

 

The ever present thrum of the Quintesson battle carrier’s heavy duty engines rattled Thundercracker’s plating as he tried and failed to ignore the other seeker sharing his tiny holding cell.

Starscream was impossible to ignore.

“Ask me why I am so happy,” Starscream demanded while nudging Thundercracker with his pede, the cheerful expression on his face entirely out of place for their surroundings.

“What?” Thundercracker grumbled, stretching his wings and then shifting from where he was leaning against the cell wall. He was doing what he did most days between butchering and enslaving innocents at the Quintesson’s command:  brooding.

“I overheard my controller saying there is going to be another demonstration for the Quintesson Judges, and I'm one of the ones they're going to be showing off.”

“Sounds counterproductive,” Thundercracker said dryly. He closed his optics, losing himself back in his memories of Cybertron’s bright skies. Of all the freedoms stolen from him, free flight was the one he missed the most. His wings twitched as memory-files of darting through sun-drenched skylines played behind his optics.

Starscream giggled at his reply … actually _giggled_ , the honest to Primus expression. “All of my Allicon’s superiors are going to be there.” His vocalizer held undertones of gleeful malice.

Thundercracker groaned. “Settle down, Satan.”

Starscream blinked at him warily and then shrugged, not getting the reference.

 _You are enjoying this way too much_ , and it was making Thundercracker sick with worry. Starscream refused to stop acting up and he didn't know what was going to happen if his trine mate didn't stop.  “Do you remember what I said about antagonizing them for no good reason? … about not making things worse?”

Starscream just snorted.

“You know this is going to backfire, right?” Thundercracker demanded, looking down at his trine mate. He understood wanting to hurt their tormentors, wanting to do something –-- anything! –-- to fight them. But there was such a thing as being defiant to the point of foolhardiness and Starscream was well past that point. Or rather ... halfway across the _galaxy_ past that point.

Starscream had heard this speech before, and didn't seem to care one iota. He just stared up at his trine mate, still sprawled out on his back plates, in the same place his handler had dumped him after his latest training session.

“Worth it.”

Thundercracker noted the tips of Starscream’s wings still shivered from the pain charges, and he sighed. He reached down and offered his servo to the other mech. He knew Starscream would remain unbalanced for a joor yet. After helping Starscream to his pedes, Thundercracker held on to his servo a few kliks longer than necessary, squeezing his fingers until Starscream hastily pulled his servo away, peering reprovingly at his trine mate for his soft sentiments.

They were Decepticons, after all.

And yet the designation meant less to Thundercracker than ever before. More of then then not, he found himself worrying about what really mattered in life, which was his brothers. TC knew Skywarp was here somewhere too and keenly missed his trine mate, no matter how annoying he could be. After he returned to his position against the wall, he broke the silence to voice his worry.

“I wonder where the Purple Menace is tonight…”

Starscream sighed and looked away, rubbing at his aching joints. His circuit lines burned, and the pain seemed to linger longer and longer the more he was punished, not that he would let that stop him. But those shock collars were no joke … and he worried about their missing trine mate as well.

When the Allicons came for him some time later, Starscream had recovered enough to stride towards his controller with a bounce in his pedes. Glancing playfully over his shoulder as he left the cell, his optics remained bright with malice and lingering pain. His Allicon noted his jovial mood with a deep grimace of pure, unadulterated hatred.

Thundercracker watched them take Starscream away with a sense of foreboding.

“Hey,” Blast Off mumbled a few breems later, pressing his face plates close to the bars. He carefully thrust his servo through them and made the tiniest gesture with his finger, indicating he had something to give Thundercracker.  The shuttle-former handed him a small disk as subtly as he could as smuggling any sort of devices was a most punishable offense.

 _'This is for Starscream,'_   gestured Blast Off in the Hand language, _'from Megatron.'_ His chirolinguistics were clumsy, reflecting how recently necessity had forced him to learn the subtle language.

 _'Understood,'_   Thundercracker replied, and then stepped a little closer. “Hey, any idea yet where we are headed?”

Blast Off switched back to Neocybex, as talking about current events wasn’t dangerous, so long as there was no mention of escape. It would even cover the exchange a bit, giving them a reason to be standing so close together.

“Yeah,” Blast Off answered, “We are heading to a planet called Cybrus, to pick up some of the organic species there. Apparently they have a unique genetic adaptation and the Quint scientists want some for study. After that we are heading to Ejoornus. The Ejoornians are next on the list for acquisition.”

“Great.” Thundercracker scowled. More murdering and enslaving innocents. _Perfect._

“You mechs are heading there, anyway,” and now Blast Off sounded worried, “but not me. _I_ am being moved to another contingent, some kind of outpost, I guess. Something to do with this mark.”

Blast Off pointed at the brand on his hip in the form of ύ, which was different than Thundercracker’s brand-mark, which was inverted. Everyone else in the cell block had the inverted mark, all but him. His helm dropped as he finished speaking, his face downcast. He was feeling particularly glum because he knew as soon as they transferred him off the battle carrier he would be too far away from the other Combaticons for smuggled messages.

“ _Frag me_ ,” mumbled Blast Off to himself as he stepped away.

Thundercracker gave him a sympathetic glance and flicked a wing in parting. Stepping back, he settled against the wall again and it wasn't long before he was back to being bored out of his mind. The little disk weighed heavily in his mind and so he did something he normally would never do; he listened to the little disk without permission.

Thundercracker routed the audio to his internal HUD and then pressed play. He winced as Megatron's voice spilled out of the tiny device in his internal audios, but didn't stop the disk.

**“–apologize, I was unable to coerce my handler to move you into my cell, his demands are–”**

Thundercracker sighed. So that was why Starscream had been so anxious lately. He knew he shouldn’t be listening to such a personal recording, but he couldn’t help himself. He was too curious to see if Megatron or other tactically minded mechs like Onslaught had come up with any sort of plan yet. He could use some hope, though the next words out of the disk confirmed that High Command still struggled to come up with anything.

The Quintesson had been perfecting the art of slavery for a long, long time.

**“–keep your helm up. I swear to you, I will find a way to free us all, and then we shall repay–”**

_Please hurry._

He couldn’t stand much more of this misery.  Looking up and over the cells, he strained his optics as if by squinting hard enough he could see Megatron. But the warbuild's solitary cell was much further down the row, well out of optical range.

It didn’t stop Starscream from trying either, the seeker craning his neck to attempt to catch a glimpse of black and purple plating from time to time … when he thought Thundercracker wasn’t paying attention.

**“–must stop antagonizing your handler and keep a low profile for now. That is an order–”**

_Thank Primus._

Thundercracker doubted Starscream would listen to Megatron any better than to him. But maybe if he heard it from them both, it would make a difference.

There was a long moment of silence and then Megatron's voice whispered out from the disk, the glyphs faint, as if the sentiments uttered were the most forbidden of contraband.

“…I miss you too, glitch.”

Thundercracker sighed again and toggled the device off, already regretting intruding on his trine mate’s privacy. Hopefully he wouldn’t return too damaged tonight. Sick of watching him suffer, he wished Starscream would listen to him, but then again, his trine leader was something of a masochist.

Anyone willing to interrupt Mighty Megatron in the shower to criticize his _glorious_ plans had to enjoy a little pain…

 

* * *

 

Megatron winced as the bar in his HUD changed from gray to red and continued to fill. Each little tick represented a measure of time they would be spending writhing in agony at the end of the cycle, a punishment he tried to avoid whenever possible. He knew instantly when Prime’s bar turned over, a soft rumble marking the moment, but Prime didn’t break.

_Apparently the rumors are correct._

Whispers held that Prime and a small number of his Autobots had refused to obey orders to kill organics. Under normal circumstances the Quintesson answered such disobedience with pain and eventually, painful death. But the limited numbers of Cybertronian slaves meant they were too valuable to waste.

Clearly Quintessa had re-assigned the misbehaving Autobots as breeding mechs. It wasn't hard to imagine the indignities such a forced function would entail, not after what he had suffered at their tendrils. He made sure Prime noticed he was now out of sight of his exposed interface array, as much as he would have otherwise enjoyed the view.

Decepticons were not monogamous by any means, and Starscream was well aware of Megatron's interest in Prime. He doubted the threesome Starscream was hoping for would ever happen, but hope remained for the tenuous bond he and Prime had been forging, and Megatron prepared himself to endure. He would be damned before giving up on that future, ruining everything merely for the selfish gain of their miserable owners.

If Prime was strong enough to stand resolute and suffer, then so was he.

Time passed, drawing them towards a mutual punishment for their disobedience. Tension rose as the point of no return approached. It wouldn’t be long before no amount of compliance would avert punishment when the current cycle ended. They both eyed the bar as it continued to fill, until Megatron felt compelled to break the silence with another uncomfortable truth.

“My controller has a very low opinion of me, Prime. He assumed he would not need to … supervise … these proceedings, and this illusion of choice won’t last long, unfortunately. I apologize in advance for whatever happens later.”

Prime nodded his understanding, but when he answered it was to ask a question that had haunted him ever since their capture. “You ordered the drones, didn’t you?”

Megatron looked away. “The road to hell, Prime.”

“I fail to see how a drone army would fall under _good intentions,_ ” and Prime’s disapproval hung heavy between them. It was likely the Quintesson would have enslaved them even without the drones, but they certainly hadn't helped. This time it was Megatron who did not answer, and not for the first time did he regret those series of decisions.

The red bar ticked again, and Megatron waited for Prime to say something; to break and ask for the interface the Quintesson wanted from them. If he started now, they could still be spared. He could still affect the red bar to the point that relentless agony could be averted.

But Prime remained silent, and so in silence did Megatron wait.

 

* * *

 

“No! NO! Transform and _then_ attack! What are you _doing_?!”

Starscream smiled as his Allicon controller screamed instructions through his control display. “But master,” he jeered in a sing-song tone, “I was only following your instructions–”

His wings flicked in amusement while the slaves ear-marked for the training exercise evaded his jet mode ‘attacks’. Humming a jaunty tune to himself, he rolled sedately around after them. It wasn’t out of any sense of pity for the old, worn out workers (reassigned as moving targets for the training programs) that he failed to damage even a single one of them.

His performance was borne entirely out of malice for his Allicon. He knew his controller’s cranky superiors were watching this supposed display of Quintesson might. He also knew that his handler would be punished for his failures. The trickle-down effect intended to function as motivation for controlling one’s lesser slaves, but it was far less effective when said slave had masochistic tendencies and just _loved_ to watch his handler suffer.

The Judges were here to see a show, and Starscream was giving them one.

The highlight of his performance was getting stuck in a corner and having to caaaarefully maneuver back out. Meanwhile the slaves had stopped bothering to run from him and began huddling under his wings instead. It hadn't taken them long to realize the safest place to be was directly _under_ the slow moving jet.

“I … I cannot believe this,” the Allicon gasped, flabbergasted. Neither could the Judges, and they stormed away in stately disgust, tentacles thrashing in furious insult. The Allicon saw his superior’s gesture at him and then the pain charges hit as both controller and slave were brutally punished.

But it was only the Allicon who rolled and screamed.

Starscream suffered just as much, but his control was such that he merely shivered in place. He made a point to endure the electric agony in silence and even forced himself to transform to root mode mid-punishment. He sat up, shaking, and his bright optics sought out his Allicon handler. He watched and he listened and a twisted smile curved his lip plating as he relished the pitiful screams, even while enduring his own share of pain.

“You! _You!”_

His handler shrieked after the punishment ended. He activated his own device, further punishing Starscream until his control panel overheated. Tapping at the hot-smelling components, he discovered to his dismay that the panel was already beginning to wear out from overuse.

Starscream endured with glittering optics. When he could finally claw back some control over his seizing frame, something dark glinted in his gaze. The enslaved cat eyed the controlling mouse, knowing it was just a matter of time before the lesser being made a mistake.

The Allicon swallowed, moistening his suddenly dry mouth. “You did it on purpose _._ You waited until they were all assembled and you _–_ ”

“Well, you should have specified,” and Starscream’s oily tones grated like nails on a chalkboard. “I … a _mere_ Quintesson slave, can _hardly_ be expected to do more then follow orders.”

Starscream felt delicious satisfaction surge through his circuits when his Allicon handler began screaming at him, spittle flying from his disgusting orifice. “I shouldn’t have to tell you every damned little thing!”

Starscream merely watched his Allicon with that razor smile. He had been delighted to discover his pain tolerance was vastly higher than his handler’s. He began paying attention and was starting to figure out what blew his Allicon’s superior’s fuses, and took delight in causing trouble, even at the expense of his own plating. He would merrily take a full bar of red and spend the night sobbing in agony for the faintest opportunity to watch his Allicon handler writhe on the floor.

His high tolerance for pain made controlling him challenging. Remembering Thundercracker’s warning, Starscream just shrugged it off. He was certain that they wouldn’t kill him. He was too effective in battle and knew that they considered him too valuable to waste. His lack of mortal fear made the inevitable punishment easier to bear, and Starscream grinned as his Allicon staggered to his feet, eyes wild from pain and rage.

 _I hate you,_ those bloodshot yellowish eyes whispered.

Starscream smirked back. _Not as much as I hate **you**._

The Allicon hissed, seeing his defeat in the gleaming optics of his charge, as this particular mech was beyond difficult to deal with. He considered applying yet another pain charge, but reluctantly decided against it. Pain didn’t seem to affect this one, and his control panel was beginning to smoke. If he had to replace it again, it would count against him and he would be punished for wasting resources.

“Back to your cell!” The Allicon shrieked instead, and Starscream gave him a mock salute as he obeyed. Even while twitching from the aftermath of punishment, Starscream still made perfect obedience look an insult.

 _Have to do something about him,_ the handler scowled, hand hovering over the smoking control panel. To his everlasting regret, he dared not use it until it cooled. Worse, he knew he couldn’t take much more pain, and this was affecting his chances for promotion within the Allicon ranks. If he wasn’t careful, this mech would cause him to be demoted back to labor class.

Behind him, the valueless slaves were being herded into a corner, likely to be taken to the next presentation. The survivors had not escaped their fates, only prolonged the inevitable.

He shuddered at the thought.

 

* * *

 

The instant his Allicon stormed away, Starscream hit the floor of his cell.

Starscream did his best not to writhe around in agony, but it took much effort. His frame was broiling hot, his circuits ached, and he groaned with fingers flexed into claws. He didn't want to cause a scene that the guards would enjoy, but now that he didn’t have his handler around to distract him, it was much harder to ignore the results of his defiance.

“Why do you keep doing that?” demanded Thundercracker, who was towering over Starscream, his wings extended in endless disapproval. “And I bet you have a full bar again, don’t you? For frag’s sake, Starscream!”

Starscream groaned. Thundercracker would never understand, and he wasn't in the mood to explain. His wings were still twitching from the excessive pain charges, and he was still sprawled out over the floor where the slavers had dumped him. Even so, he still managed to grin up at his trine mate from his customary position on the floor and wheezed, “Oh don’t start lecturing me again ... _hnn_ ... you sound like a broken vid recorder.”

Thundercracker wasn’t impressed. “You know they're going to punish you. It’s like they never stop punishing you and then you go back for more! And the cycle ends in less than a joor and then I’ll be listening to you cry like a protoform for hours tonight … and all for nothing.”

Starscream laughed, spitting internal fluid onto the floor. “Not for nothing. For _everything_! For all I have left in this stupid joke of an existence!”

“Are you _trying_ to get killed?”

“I do it because I enjoy it,” said Starscream grandly and he threw his arms out in an exaggerated gesture. “It's the only thing keeping me sane in this fragging slaghole.”

“I have no idea where Skywarp is, or if he is even still alive. I don’t want to lose you too.”

Starscream stared at him while processing that statement. “Now don’t go getting soft on me…” and his lip plating quirked because he knew it was already too late, at least for this particular trine mate. 

Thundercracker lifted and dropped his wings with a click. _Whatever._

“More soft then you already are,” Starscream mumbled, rubbing at himself to try and ease the ache for the umpteenth time that cycle. “Speaking of soft, when are you going to get that … that _thing_ … out of your cockpit? It gives me the _surges_.”

Thundercracker’s wings snapped forward aggressively. It was the one topic that never failed to get a rise out of him, no matter how broody or depressed he became. Today was no exception, and his optics grew ablaze and dangerous.  “Frag off about Buster. She’s none of your business.”

Starscream raised his servos in mock surrender.

“I’ll never forgive them,” and Thundercracker flared his wings, his vocalizer hot with hate. He lay a servo over his windshield, his fingers covering the spot where Buster nestled in the seat of his cockpit. “It’s their fault and I will _never_ forgive them.”

Starscream shook his helm as he worked himself into a sitting position. He rested his back plates against the cell wall and said, “I’d blame Megatron. _He_ ordered the drones. _He_ was the one who started all this. Always fragging us over with his stupid–”

“Oh,” and Thundercracker interrupted Starscream before he could start up his favorite rant again. He gestured for Starscream's attention and then switched to wing-speak. _'Speaking of Megatron, he sent this for you.'_

Starscream launched himself forward. He snatching the tiny device in the same instant and jammed it into his wrist port. Then he settled back, his fingers curling and uncurling with clear excitement. Then he hissed after a few astro-seconds, hearing Megatron's bad news.

Thundercracker didn’t comment on his trine mate’s reaction, though he knew the instant Megatron’s murmured sentiment came through the recording. It was strange to see such a soft expression cross _those_ face plates.

“I don't blame him,” Thundercracker retorted after a moment. “The Quintesson were obviously planning this for some time.”

Now it was Starscream’s turn to lift and drop his wings … _click_ … even as his optics softened. Thundercracker suspected his trine mate had set the recording into a continuous loop by the way he kept losing focus, well after the message should have ended.

“They had everything prepared and planned out to the smallest detail,” Thundercracker insisted. “The attack would have gone ahead even if they hadn't had the drones.”

Starscream scowled. “Megatron still got the ball rolling…”

“You know what?” Thundercracker snapped, “I think they would have kicked our afts even without the drones. There's too few of us and we weren't prepared for a real invasion. Their blast took out the entire city and dropped most of the heavy weights from both factions before the fight even started.”

“They didn’t even need drones to take _us_ down,” and Thundercracker finished on a depressed note. There wasn't a cycle that passed that where he didn’t regret not listening to his instincts that night. The Quintesson would never have caught them if they had cut and run just a little sooner.

“Whatever," Starscream mumbled with the accompanying _click._

“And you need to stop antagonizing them.” Thundercracker stepped forward and repeated himself, insisting when Starscream wouldn't meet his optics. “Things are bad enough and they are going to get worse if you don’t stop.”

Starscream laughed shrilly. “How could things get _worse_? Just … keep your stupid little play-it-smart speeches to yourself. The only enjoyment I get out of life right now is watching that _idiot_ suffer along with me.”

“Starscream–”

“ _Make me_ ,” and Starscream sat back with a huff.  “I'll do what I want.” It was his last word on the topic, so said the slant of his wings, and his optics went soft again after he returned his attention to the deep rumbling voice looping in his audials.

Thundercracker stared at him and his optics cycled to their widest setting. Then he doubled over in barely subdued laughter, sputtering oral lubricant through his intakes.

“I’ll **do** what I **want** –”

“That’s not how I said that.”

Starscream glowered at Thundercracker suspiciously, not understanding the source of his mirth. Thundercracker could act so weird sometimes … and don’t get him started on the screenplays. Primus _damn_ …

Thundercracker’s laughter finally subsided, and he leaned back with his servo cupped over his cockpit. Amusement slowly drained from his face plates as he watched Starscream for a long moment.

“He’s an idiot, isn’t he girl?” Thundercracker murmured, addressing his statement to the little form nestled in his cockpit.

Starscream just winced and looked away.

Buster would have agreed if she could. She was still curled up in his seat and strapped snuggly in place with his seat belt. She was in the same spot she’d been since the first few days of Thundercracker’s captivity … when the oxygen had finally run out in his cockpit.

Thundercracker returned to his silent worrying as he watched Starscream try and fail to get comfortable. His recovery was all for not, for as soon as the cycle ended, the red bar would reset and the pain would resume. With a cringe, Thundercracker decided to increase his efforts to persuade his idiot trine leader to tone it down.

He couldn’t afford to lose another family member.

 

* * *

 

Optimus watched on his own internal display as the red bar crept past the halfway point.

The chains around his frame were unyielding, no matter how he tested them. The floor was dingy and cold, and the gray of them matched his mood. He was desperately tired of punishment, having endured so much of it. His plating flared in anxiety as he fought with himself, torn between defiance and calling for Megatron.

Megatron did not face the level of castigation that Optimus did, as he generally obeyed the Quintesson at this point. He was willing to bow his helm and help enslave and slaughter countless innocents at their command even as he plotted against them.

As an Autobot, Optimus didn’t have such luxury. He knew the Quintesson would wield him as a weapon against innocent species they intended to overrun and enslave. He couldn’t do it, and a number of his Autobots followed his example and tumbled with him headlong into hell.

Punishment was brutal and endless up until a mega-cycle ago when the constant training and retraining phases came to an abrupt end. Optimus and the few remaining Autobots that couldn’t be trained for murder were branded with a ύ symbol and then dumped into a communal cell together. Finally left alone, they had been relieved to be reunited. But as the cycles passed a deep sense of impending disaster loomed heavy over them.

Optimus was certain the peaceful cycles amounted to the calm before some sort of storm.

They all knew better than to think the Quintesson were going to leave them in peace. In the meantime they were all paired off like this, forced into carrying. Most of the others were already with spark and some of them clung to hope that whatever was coming would be lenient.

Personally, he doubted it.

The bar ticked farther into the red, and although tired of hurting, he still couldn’t force himself to speak. The others back in the cells suffered with him while following his example; Autobot principles and beliefs were all he had left.

Often that was no comfort at all and Optimus kept looking back at Megatron as the red bar continued to fill, fidgeting. He chewed on his lower lip plating and remained silent, but blue optics kept catching red ones, both sets tense.

“You think you can outlast me. You think you are stronger.” Megatron finally said, but his vocalizer held warm tones, his words more a challenge. _We can do this. Stay with me…stand with me. We will defy them together. You are worth this to me._

Optimus understood the sentiment underneath, the declaration. It warmed his spark as much as the red bar filled him with fear.

The time passed, the current cycle ended, and the time for punishment finally arrived. Both mechs twisted and deep voices sounded, neither capable of silence in the face of such deep, indescribable pain.

They collapsed on the floor together, writhing in agony.


	6. Desecration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two sparks become three.
> 
> Wayment [verb]  
> lamentation; grief; mourning; expressions of anguish.  
> Etymology: from Old English waymenten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** This story can get very dark, and please be aware of that. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :) 
> 
> Warnings: Quintesson being heartless monsters that do mean things: non-con (not brutal), inappropriate touches, punishment, medical horror, other meanness…
> 
> Note: This is one of the darkest chapters for Prime's crew in this story, be warned. Written with Röyksopp & Susanne Sundfør’s ‘Running To The Sea’.

The allotted punishment finally passed, and both mechs slumped in place, sprawled over the ground. The lighting was dim now, reflecting the night cycle, and the soft glow from their frames was the brightest light source in the small chamber.

“How long,” Optimus choked out, “How long … is this to continue?” His vocalizer shot through with static for the lingering pain.

Megatron lay sprawled where he had fallen, also shaking. “Until … they get… what they want.”

Megatron braced himself with one palm on the wall, while Optimus remained where he was bound down, on his hands and knees. Their frames shuddered in shared misery, and almost a joor passed before the lightening-harsh pain calmed back down to manageable levels.

“It starts again.” Megatron eyed his HUD control bar. It was reset to gray now, but he knew it wouldn’t stay that way. It would start tracking again as soon as the next cycle started. “If they don’t bother to come in and force us tomorrow, then it will be worse, much longer. We have the full cycle to be disobedient.”

Megatron looked over at him, red optics glowing in the darkness, a question in his tone. _Do you want me to finish this?_

Optimus’ vocalizer brimmed with pain, every line of his frame aching as he choked out his answer. “I will never agree to bring life into slavery.” But he winced when his words lacked the conviction and the strength they should have. They felt hollow to him, empty bravado slipping past his lips.

Megatron rumbled, perhaps in agreement or approval, and didn’t answer.

Instead he stretched himself out with difficulty, favoring his knee joint. His injury had started small, but was becoming more pronounced by the cycle. He wasn’t looking forward to the invasive medical procedure he would be enduring when he could no longer conceal it from his handler. The Quintesson never bothered with such needless expenses as anesthetics. He sighed and closed his optics to try and steal a bit of recharge.

They had mere joors before the working cycle would begin, as punishment was always doled out during the allocated rest period, making it even more devastating. Recharge periods are too short already and every moment’s rest was precious.

An apprehensive quiet filled the barren chamber as Optimus worked his intakes, unable to control the faint tremor down his back strut. Finally he broke the quiet, the glyphs escaping before he could choke them back. “They will force it on us, eventually. You should just get it over with.”

Lacking in his words and tone was any trace of consent, and he felt a rush of shame for his words, but he was too miserable not to utter them.

“And have you blaming _me_ for such violation?” Megatron gasped back, laughing, his vocalizer filled with harshness. “I _refuse_ , Prime.”

Optimus shrank into himself.

It had been a long, grinding captivity and he flinched for the weakness creeping into his frame, into his processor. _I must be stronger,_ he admonished himself. _My Autobots need to see me strong. This madness cannot last forever._

Optimus shuttered his optics, but Megatron didn’t comment any further on his lapse. Instead the warbuild shot him a sympathetic glance he didn’t see… as Megatron understood his desperation, fully aware of his counterpart's mortification that was made so much worse by his humiliating position on the floor.

“The Allicon… they were mocking us, a few days ago.” Optimus murmured finally, a soft rumble in the darkness, optics still shuttered. The memory-file was vivid, replaying as an endless grinding in his processor, a source of deep anxiety. “I heard them say that we … my Autobots … are scheduled for something called _stripping_.”

The last glyph held a note of true fear.

Megatron looked over at Optimus, discouraged to hear his old enemy so ground down in captivity and he sagged a little.  He regretted that he had nothing to say to comfort the other mech, no words to offer that wouldn’t leave his vocalizer sounding feeble and empty.

He too faced his own horrors; surviving each day as a weapon for the aggrandizement of their vile owners, a mere thing instead of a living being. But hearing how burdened the other mech sounded, he dared slip a little closer.

“Obviously I won’t spark you… but may I _touch_ you?” His vocalizer held notes of longing.

“Yes,” Optimus whispered, all of his loneliness encompassed within that one word.

Megatron pulled in a long in-vent, and then slipped in close. Reaching out, he ran his servos across the other, the touch a comfort that mere words couldn’t provide. Touching him gently, he ran his servos along the warm plating and Optimus calmed under his fingers.

Megatron continued the long, gentle strokes until the other relaxed and sagged against him, the hot-engine scent stronger now, but still pleasant. Rumbling softly, he settled in close and they leaned against each other, fields overlapping, drawing comfort from the physical touch of heavy plating and the electromagnetic caress of two powerful fields.

The punishment bar was frozen in the gray for the night cycle as long as no disruptions occurred, and they both drifted into recharge together for the precious few hours of quiet allotted them.

 

* * *

 

Megatron blinked as his processor rebooted, bringing him back online in a hurry.

 _The lights just cycled back on,_ he realized, and slowly sat up when Prime stirred next to him. They were both displeased to hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching not long after, and the door slid open.

As unhappy as Megatron was to see his handler, his spark still pulsed with warm satisfaction to see the tell-tale quivering of the wretch's blunt green fingers. 

The Allicon faced reprimand when his control over Megatron lapsed and he, too, suffered punishment during the night cycle. Leaving his charge to his own devices had been a dreadful mistake. The controller had enjoyed his half-cycle of precious freedom so much he hadn't bothered to check on them, certain Megatron would have amused himself with the breeder-mech without prompting. He had only realized his error when the failure report came through and his own time for punishment arrived.

Megatron didn’t even bother to hide his amusement. _He will punish me, but it is good to see he suffered for this._ But as his handler stomped towards him, clearly furious, Megatron was startled by sudden movement and the sound of rattling bindings and looked back over his shoulder.

Prime, his intimate ports still locked open and on display, was thrashing against the restraints still binding him to the floor. Nearing a panicked state, his plating flared even as he tried to mentally prepare himself for whatever was coming.

Megatron’s intakes ran dry as realization dawned … _this is really going to happen_... and he only barely managed to meet furious yellow eyes evenly, though his fuel pump was pounding.

 _You may get what you want today wretch, but I will make you pay for every moment of this misery,_ Megatron promised silently, optics flaring with wild aggression. _If you think I’ve been difficult before_ –

Then the Allicon lunged towards him, a small magnetized disk in his blunt fingers. Megatron’s consciousness was lost an instant later as his higher neocortex shut down, leaving only the lowest levels of his processor functioning.

*******

“Activating guardian-protocols,” the Allicon said, injecting a line into Megatron’s medical port. Blunt fingers tapped at his control panel and sent a burst of binary-instructions into the warbuild's data port.

Stepping back, he turned his attention to Optimus, roughly inserting thick fingers into the bare valve, pushing past the soft, resistant metal to the opening beyond.  He swirled his digits, rubbing over sensitive nodes and gathering lubricant from inside while Optimus jerked for the intrusion.

The initial intrusion was a shock and wholly uncomfortable, but his internal nodes appreciated the stroking all the same. The pleasure was unwanted, and the feel of those blunt fingers inside him intolerable. Glowering over his shoulder, Optimus tried to fight his tormentor. "We are both slaves! We both suffer under the same masters! We should be fighting them together! This is wrong, how can you not see–”

Choking off his protest, Optimus fell silent at the sight of the device clamped to his counterpart's helm. The confused, empty expression reflecting in Megatron's optics explained the hopelessness of their situation in full.

_They have stolen his mind from him._

"You are disgusting," Optimus snarled at the Allicon, but the handler didn't respond. Instead he continued to stimulate Optimus, causing the soft, rubbery metal around his slit to stretch and swell, normally meant to cushion the movements of two conjoined partners. Probably unintentional, as the monster seemed more interested in the lubricants beginning to moisten his valve walls, for whatever reason.

Optimus squirmed and the handler continued to ignore him, though his assistants jeered, enjoying Optimus' upset. Their malice was obvious, and his protests only amused them. His restraints constricted all useful movement, and the most he could do now was try not to give them any satisfaction. Instead, he clamped his mouth closed and ground his denta.

“Don’t know why the Masters bothered with this,” one of the assistants mumbled to the other after a few moments, already bored as Optimus refused to provide any further entertaining reactions, even as the ranking Allicon continued his work. “This one is still scheduled for re-assignment.”

The second nodded agreement. “This carrier-mech will likely abort anyway, and then we will have to return. Preparations for the stripping process are nearly complete.”

“Most of the guardian-protocol will be on campaign and unavailable for some time, and all gestating assets remain off-record for now,” Megatron’s Allicon called over his shoulder. “There is no added cost for this attempt and the new asset might survive.”

Optimus threw back his helm and his engine revved, unnerved by the conversation. “What do you mean by that? What do you intend to do to us?”

But the Allicon just shook his head and shot his assistants a warning look.

Instead of answering, his fingers left Optimus and he grabbed Megatron's face. He started to smear Optimus' lubricant under Megatron’s nasal sensor and along his lip components. Working swiftly, he forced Megatron's intakes open and judiciously smeared the fluid across Megatron's soft glossa. Then he hauled on the confused warbuild and positioned him behind Optimus.

Optimus strained, trying to curl around to see what was happening, but the chains were too restrictive and had no give. The handler patted his aft, treating him like some sort of anxious breeding animal, and Optimus ground his denta again. "Megatron," he murmured miserably, barely audible, wondering if Megatron could even hear him.

Then, and with a snort, the Allicon pushed Megatron's face against Optimus' valve and held him there.

Shocked for the illicit touch, Optimus strained against his bindings in futile protest. The chains held him fast, ensuring he couldn't pull away. Helpless, he shifted his weight from knee to knee, the most movement that could be mustered. He could feel the soft mouth against his valve and his components twitched haplessly. His anterior node flickered a little for the warm breath tickling over it; automatic responses cared little for context.

Confused, Megatron in-vented in deep pulls, the softness of Optimus' intimate components pressed against his mouth. His nasal sensor bumped against Optimus' anterior node, further stimulating it. There was a tingling in his mouth and over his glossa now, unusual and captivating. The newly emerged code was processing unimpeded through his frame.

His spikehead emerged from his sheath, interested now, and he puffed warm breath over Optimus' interface array.

The scent from Optimus continued to waft over his nasal sensors, that hot engine smell he'd noticed while he was awake was now infiltrating his deeper passages. The pheromone data took on greater significance. Base data surged through his circuit pathways, activating long dormant sections of his processor ... buttressed by the newer coding inflicted by the Allicon.

The Allicon snorted in satisfaction as he watched Megatron begin scenting the carrier-mech with deep interest, no longer needing a hand on his helm to keep him engaged. Stepping back, the Allicon allowed the base coding to take its course. The new protocols were far more efficient than manual methods involving threats and pain sticks … although less entertaining.

Megatron instinctively licked his lip plating. He tasted the receptive valve-lubricant smeared over his glossa, and his spike fully pressurized, jutting between his legs. Lowering his helm, he pushed his mouth against the tightly clenched port. Functioning on base instinct only, he nibbled and licked at the soft metal, his movements slow and gentle.

Each touch sent electric tingles through his interface array and Optimus laid his forehelm against the floor and groaned a soft denial. He could feel every little mouthing touch, hear the wet sounds of a glossa, feel his valve softening in response to the gentle lapping, and there was nothing he could do for any it. His reluctant mesh was already fully inflated and now his aching slit began to iris open. He swallowed and squirmed when he felt a curious glossa trace his opening and then slip inside, the slick motion eased by a little surge of lubricant.

The penetration marked by a stifled little gasp and curling blue fingers.

Megatron seemed content with nuzzling and suckling at his port. Red optics were half-lidded as his lips moved and explored, his soft rumbles into the quivering valve eliciting subdued, but insistent squirming. His glossa slid in deeper and deeper while Optimus strangled back soft moans. His valve was pulsing now, and arousal was warming his lower frame.

Optimus didn't want the pleasure, but he couldn't help but feel it. His ventilation systems were getting noisy now, fans activating to help keep him cool. He looked over his shoulder, but couldn't see Megatron's face plates. Dropping his helm, he looked down between his chained limbs, only to get a view of fully pressurized spike, bobbing loose and free, hot and ready and willing.

The Allicon frowned as the suckling and mouthing went long. He was growing impatient. Finally he intervened, hauling on the confused but enthusiastic warbuild. He helped position Megatron over Optimus' trembling back-plating with an annoyed grumble.

It took Megatron a moment to reorient. Then he clutched at the warm and flaring plating beneath him. Despondent blue met bright red optics, the latter filled with a sort of joy only the innocent possess. Beholding that so-familiar face, something clicked within Megatron. His optics connected the rich scent to the body of the one beneath him _._

The new-old guardian coding was only at the uppermost layers of Megatron's mind; the rest of him was shutdown. It left him clumsy and confused. He peered down at the frame beneath him, and he liked what he saw, what he was smelling. With a pleased rumble, Megatron began nuzzling Optimus' bound body, mouthing against the Optimus' neck and audials with open affection.

Megatron's delight for the other mech pulsed through his EM fields with abandon, as all higher thoughts had been purged from his processor. Uninhibited, he rumbled against white-gray neck cabling, his spike bobbing and rubbing along Optimus' lower frame. His connector left dribbles of pre-fluid where his spikehead dragged against Optimus' inner thigh.

The copious droplets specked the floor beneath them in spiraling patterns.

One of the assistants grumbled for the slow pace of things, moving to activate his pain-stick. But Megatron’s Allicon made a harsh, negating gesture and the assistant stepped back with a disappointed sigh.

Optimus' plating vibrated from the deep rumbles of pleasure from Megatron's heavy engine. The heavier rig covered Optimus' smaller frame with ease and Megatron's cheek slid smoothly against the silvery-white face. Swallowing thickly, Optimus felt Megatron adjust his grip, holding him ever tighter, dark hips moving, trying to enter him. He could feel the hot spike nudging at his array.

All for naught, as Megatron was too clumsy and confused to mount properly.

The Allicon stepped in again, grabbing and guiding the spike with thick fingers until the first spike-ridge found its mark. He stepped back as the warbuild bottomed out and began to thrust with abandon, the movements animalistic and joyful.

Optimus threw his helm back, swallowing back a moan even as he couldn't help but clench around the pleasing intruder. A hot scent began to emanate from the warbuild across his back plates, the heavy engine surging and rumbling, the sounds and scents arousing to Optimus in spite of himself. He was also afflicted with the ancient, now augmented coding, though the effect was not so overpowering with his primary processor still functioning normally.

Biting his lip, Optimus tried to keep all reaction off his face plates, but it was impossible. He'd ached for such contact, wanting the comfort he denied for himself and yet offered so freely for his own mechs. Yet this was an attack on both of them, though try as he might he couldn't stop what was coming, what was on it's way.

Charge built swiftly within his valve for the sheer enthusiasm the warbuild displayed for him. Optimus could feel every slick slide of the plunging heat between his legs, the lubricants more than enough for comfort. He felt a traitorous tightness across his belly, matching the glorious heat in his valve. He rumbled low in his throat for the building charge as Megatron thrust into him with animalistic joy, the dark plating flared in wild delight.

Optimus felt himself starting to peak and tilted his helm. His face mask retracted for a brief instant and he brushed his soft lip plating against the other in an awkward kiss. The quiet gesture was an offering of forgiveness that Megatron couldn’t understand was needed, and Megatron returned the gentle touch with a wordless rumble, clearly enchanted by the bare face of the other.

Lost in the pleasure of service, Megatron grew noisy, his animalistic _mmh! mmh! mmh!_   coming in rhythm to his thrusts. He was too far gone to hold anything back, and then his engine roared and he strained with a keen. He plunged deep then held, his heavy frame leaving the floor entirely as his body arched in a chassis-wide spasm of ecstasy, emptying with delighted gasps.

The releasing charged pulled Optimus over with him, and then Optimus only barely choked back his own cry, a burst of hot pleasure below momentarily whitening his vision. He clenched down hard while wincing for the added weight across his back. Megatron's warmth flooded through him, and the frame above him locked down, binding them together.

Their frames locked, ensuring conception and Optimus knew he was undone.

"Finally!" one of the assistants laughed, and the ranking Allicon snuffled in agreement. Unmoved by the Allicon’s heckling, Megatron was too busy showering affection on the blue and red plating within reach to pay them any mind.

It was impossible for Optimus to hold on to any anger for the mech pressed against his back, still nuzzling along his neck in honest affection. Dark plating was smoothing down and Megatron began trying to sit up. It was difficult, as he was still seated deep within Optimus, his spark still flaring with warmth reflected by his electromagnetic fields.

The Allicon noted the time of successful copulation, then strode forward and snatched the small device from Megatron’s helm. He prudently stepped back a few paces, his assistants taking position at his sides.

 

*******

 

Megatron blinked, and then hissed and clutched at his helm as a raging helm-ache took up residence behind his optics. Then he looked down and realized the dreadful situation with a shocked hiss.

There were no glyphs in the Cybertronian language that could describe the emotions that roared across his electromagnetic fields, replacing the mindless joy in a fraction of a klik. His plating went from an erotic tilt to a tight clench against his frame. He tried to lurch away, but couldn't, and then he realized the frame lock and what it signified.

“ _You_ ,” he hissed, baring his denta at his Allicon, who only chortled that _horf-horf-horf_ sound he so deeply loathed while the assistants grinned.

Megatron’s humiliation and rage intermingled with the deep despair emanating from the mech beneath him. Feeling how distraught Prime was, he dropped his helm and pressed his face plates against the red back strut. A mortified apology was murmured against the warm plating, and Megatron could feel the other's engine rumble in response.

“It’s not your fault,” Prime mumbled back. His helm remained low and downcast. Lubricant dripped forlornly down his thigh plating, lacking the pink of transfluid, all of which was now sequestered deep within his newly active gestation tank.

Megatron didn’t answer, but his grip remained considerate. His optics shuttered closed and he tried hard not to move. He was still deep within Prime, and could feel the little trembles around his spike as Prime came down from the forced overload. Worse, the guardian-protocol was now active, and strong urges surged through him for the mech huddled beneath him. Protective feelings filled him, but the deeper feelings he harbored for his counterpart still belonged solely to his spark.

Second compulsory overload was an instinctive reaction, with Prime’s valve massaging Megatron's trapped spike in undulating rhythm. The secondary valve aperture was clamped down over his spikehead, triggering a long and full release.

Megatron groaned against Prime's back. He could feel the subtle trembling in Prime's plating and forced himself into silence. He felt every squeeze as Prime's needy gestation tank accepted his subsequent gift of transfluid.

Finally, the frame-lock ended. They immediately pulled apart and Megatron disengaged. His spike snapped back into its sheath in an instant, even as his handler stepped towards him.

His helm was swimming for the migraine storming behind his optics.

“Stand up,” the Allicon ordered, his fingers hovering over the deactivation switch. He had learned his lesson the last time this war-mech had looked at him with such hatred.

With one last apologetic squeeze to the blue and red plating beneath him, Megatron clambered to his pedes. He felt off-balance and drained. Even worse, Prime’s hopeless melancholy was still winding though him, and so he didn’t attack them as he would have done for such violation.

Moving with hesitation, Megatron was careful to hide his limp. He stood warily as the Allicon unbound him from the floor, and motioned him towards the door. Helm tilting back in surprise, he flicked a glance back at Prime, red optics flitting over to the prone form.

Prime returned his anxious look.

But the Allicon only glowered at his charge and threatened him with the business end of the pain-stick. “I hate Cybertronians,” he hissed as he stalked towards the door with his quarrelsome charge in tow. Megatron followed behind as the others took careful positions around him.

“Should have taken him if you wanted him, instead of making me force you,” The Allicon snapped. “You don’t even remember, thanks to the device. This should have been a reward, you stupid weapon-mech! Such consideration is rare from the Masters! How ungrateful of you to go and waste it!”

Megatron ignored him. He was consumed with anxiety - an unusual state for him - and was too busy staring back over his shoulder at the despondent blue and red mech he was leaving behind. The new-old guardian protocols were urging him to remain and his spark ached in strange pulses within him. Alas, he had no choice in the matter, and within kliks Prime was no longer within view.

“I would never do such a thing without you forcing it of me,” Megatron finally retorted. His helm swiveled back around as he lost sight of Prime. Spitting the words with a baleful hiss, he'd never wanted to kill them so desperately as now. His fingers curled, as if already choking the life out of this wretched being that controlled him so utterly.

The Allicon skidded to a stop. “You wish me to beat you while you fornicate?!” His yellow eyes bulged in shock. “Why didn’t you _say so_?!”

Megatron grimaced as disgust intermingled with burning hate. “No.”

The Allicon snorted out his long muzzle and flecks of mucus splattered out. “I will be glad when you finally die in battle and I get a new war-mech to manage. Anything would be better than you.”

Megatron's scowl deepened as the vile droplets trickled down his armature. “You won’t live that long," he said a sudden razor-smile. Then he doubled over as a shock of pain lanced him for his threat, but he didn’t drop to the ground. He was getting used to this setting.

The smirking Allicon noticed and thumbed up the power a few notches. His smirk vanished when he realized his control panel was now set to the highest setting, and snarled at his charge. “I should have known you would be so contrary! I told the Masters you didn’t deserve such reward, but they insisted. They have a customer who will pay top credits for a mechling from the two of you.”

Megatron's plating flared to its fullest extent. His optics flew wide and then refilled with hatred. His handler's smirk was back, oh so pleased to see he'd scored a hit against his troublesome charge. Then he forced Megatron to continue down the corridor and further away from Prime.

Megatron managed to smother his wince when pain flared through his damaged knee joint as the handler prodded him forward. Shifting his weight, he masked his pain under a furious glower as he walked alongside his handler again.

"That mech is scheduled for stripping soon,” the Allicon said, eyeing the warbuild with a calculating expression. He hadn’t missed the significance of the pair bonding behaviors; the enthusiastic affection from the uninhibited warbuild and the forgiving gestures from the carrier-mech in return.

 _These assets know each other,_ he was certain.

“Soon they will finish the automation process. When he is ready for the next copulation, all I will have to do is load you into the rack device, attach the tubules, press a control, and _done_. You will never even see him.”

He was rewarded for his efforts by the sound of grinding denta, and his charge’s lip plating narrowed into a thin, tight line.

The Allicon snorted again, looking pleased. It was such a rare delight when he managed to rattle this mech. “I hope you enjoyed him,” his controller’s every word dripped with malice, “because this is the last time you will _ever_ see him.”

Megatron looked away without comment, but his flared armor betrayed his dismay. Satisfied his stubborn, irritating charge was suitably browbeaten, the Allicon herded the valuable asset towards the docking bay and their next task.

 

* * *

 

Exuberant and contrary by nature, Brawl enjoyed giving authority figures all sorts of hell.

Unfortunately the Allicon controllers didn't appreciate his particular brand of humor. They went out of their way to quash any hint of rebelliousness (otherwise known as happiness or joy) left in the tank-former’s functioning.

Thus training never went well for him. By the time the training exercise was over he was shaking, in a rotten mood, and couldn't wait to take his irritation out on his squad leader.

Dumped back into the cell he was currently sharing with Onslaught and Breakdown, Brawl grumbled mightily for the residual pain grinding his circuits. Then the cycle ended with him still in the red. He endured his punishment with his usual thrashing and screaming while Onslaught sat on him, holding him down until the allotted punishment finally ended.

Onslaught let him up, sitting back and scowling at his idiotic subordinate. After a moment of contemplation, he gave in to the flicker of compassion his spark still owned and clapped a companionable arm over Brawl's heaving shoulders.

“You ever heard of keeping a _low profile_ while in captivity?”

Brawl snorted. “If I got to choke a glitch for the Quintesson, _fine_. But I ain’t doing tricks!” His lip plates contorted as he spat out internal fluid; he had bitten his glossa during all the thrashing.

“Alright then. I am now ordering your _dumb aft_ to keep a low profile. We are getting out of here sooner rather than later,” Onslaught hissed sub-vocally. “I am working on a plan.”

“You been working on ‘a plan’ since we got here!”

Onslaught glowered at his faithless subordinate, answering him in the slow tones one would use with a drugged mental patient or a glitching maintenance drone. “That just means it’s going to be a _good one_ , Brawl.”

“Yeah,” Brawl rolled over and worked himself into a seated position, “or it means you ain’t got clue one how to get the frag out of here.”

Onslaught looked away. “It is a tough scenario,” he admitted.

“No frag,” Brawl said, but he was already starting to relax.

“Figured out where we are heading finally,” Onslaught mentioned to change the subject away from plans and the lack of any tangible progress. “Blast Off coaxed it out of his Allicon a few cycles ago.”

Brawl perked up at the mention of their team mate, too far down the containment cell row to be seen.

“Sounds like we will be front-lining an assault on Ejoornus,” Onslaught continued. “Megatron was torqued off when he heard about it. Tried to tell them they were making a huge mistake…you remember that Cetus operation we had derailed out there? The secret Autobot lab we tracked down in that sector?”

“Yeah,” Brawl muttered. “We went to smash it up, but the Galactic Council crashed the party before the fireworks could get started. Tons of ‘em and they smashed up the lab _and_ us.”

“They have a heavy presence out there,” Onslaught agreed. “So if we are attacking Ejoornus, that must mean the Quintesson either have some sort of agreement with them to look the other way, or they are just that damned stupid.”

“Damned stupid,” Brawl offered his opinion. “Galactic Council hates the Quints. No way are they cooperating.”

“Megatron thinks the same thing. He had it out with his handlers,” Onslaught added, “and that was the hullabaloo we heard last night.”

Brawl grunted. “Thought I heard Megs howling, they must have punished ‘em good.” Megatron was still in solitary, but his dark cell wasn’t too far down the row, and at times the tank-former was sure he could hear their old leader…definitely heard him last night.

Behind them a fuel dispenser started filling with their tasteless ration for the night, and Breakdown hurried over to fetch it. The Combaticons watched, but they weren’t worried the Stunticon would try to steal some of their fuel; he valued his pretty plating too much for such shenanigans.

Although Breakdown’s plating was getting less and less shiny as the campaigns passed and he wasn’t offered any opportunity to look after himself. Slaves didn't need to be pretty to be effective after all.

Attempting to argue, Sunstreaker was educated by his Allicon that regular showers had been considered but ultimately ruled against by the masters: studies proved that routine showers led to cleanliness, then godliness, ending in _religious anarchy_. Sunstreaker had punched his handler and received a full red bar for his trouble.

Somewhere in a cubical far away, a Quintesson accountant tapped a minus for 'solvent' on a spreadsheet, thereby saving the Empire from a cleanliness-inspired holy war and patted himself on his nonexistent back for his ingenuity.

In the cell across from them, Megatron whined at somebot with a clatter-clacking sound. “Cut it out you aft-holes, I’ve had an awful night!”

_Megatron?_

Brawl blinked quizzically until he caught sight of the complainer. “Hey Nautilator!”

...and then scowled as frantic hushing motions erupted from the peanut gallery. If the Allicon guards came down for disruptions, things would be unpleasant for everyone.

“I’m just being **neighborly**!” Brawl shouted the last word while hushing them back.

He was already back to his cheerful self, especially after returning his attention to the Stunticon’s skid plate. Though he was careful to avoid letting the pretty idiot see him staring at that aft like a sharkticon eyeing a delectable piece of meat. Mech was _sensitive_ and Brawl wasn’t interested in listening to hours of whimpering tonight.

_Still, that was one damned fine aft…_

_'Don’t even think about it,'_ Onslaught warned him in Hand, finger gestures slanted with derogatory undertones. ' _Stunticons are beneath us.'_ He didn’t want to listen to hours of whining either… _fragging useless Stunticons._

Brawl just shrugged, well aware just how much Motormaster and Onslaught hated each other’s internals. That animosity translated to  both teams hating each other with a passion, and true to form, Breakdown wouldn’t let him anywhere near his pretty skid plate.

Snatching his portion of fuel paste from Breakdown, Brawl began wolfing his ration with a grimace while turning his attention back towards his squad leader. Then the mischievous glint Onslaught was coming to hate flashed through Brawl’s visor again.

“Onslaught… hey Onslaught?”

The Combaticon leader just groaned from where he sat cross-legged on the floor. _Not this slag again…_

 

*******

 

Breakdown watched as the object of his attention tried everything in his power to ignore his irritating subordinate.

The Stunticon had seen Wildrider try the same exact thing on Motormaster whenever he forgot his place. He wasn’t sure why Onslaught hadn’t beaten Brawl to a pulp yet; it always took care of the problem for Motormaster.

Listening to the two mechs sniping at each other, Breakdown was overcome with loneliness. He stepped nearer to Onslaught while offering him his portion of the vile fuel paste, lingering as long as he could next to the squad leader who was too distracted with his ration to drive him back to his tiny corner of the cell.

Brawl continued his verbal poking. “Onslaught?”

The Combaticon leader ignored both the tank and the Lamborghini with a long-suffering expression. It felt so familiar, the non-attention a form of mental safety he craved, and Breakdown inched even closer.

Onslaught’s helm whirled as he fixed Breakdown with a warning glower while still ignoring Brawl, hissing as their electromagnetic fields brushed. The heavy artillery carrier’s fields pulsed with aggression for the intrusion, pushing the Stunticon away through mere force of presence.

 “Hey Onslaught?” Brawl’s vocalizer dripped with feigned innocence. He just had a question, that’s all.

Just one measly little question…

Hesitant to withdraw, Breakdown weighed the cost of ignoring the clear warning with his own unbearable isolation and took a step even closer until Onslaught's fist clenching in final warning convinced him to reconsider. He reluctantly stepped away, edging back to his tiny corner while throwing a longing glance at the squad leader who continued to ignore him.

“…Onslaught!”

**“What?”**

Several mechs in the cells around them hissed wildly, waving at the Combaticons to be quiet. Brawl waved his arms back at them in a maniac parody, “Would you be quiet?! You are going to get us into trouble!” and then turned towards his squad leader with a gleeful expression.

“Do you think–”

“Brawl,” Onslaught cut him off at the pass, “I’d like to see things from your point of view, but I can't get my helm that far up my tailpipe.”

Brawl slapped his knee with a guffaw, the noise echoing across the cells while frantic mechs around them broke out into mass hissy fits like hordes of spastic snakes.

Taking advantage of the disturbance, Breakdown pushed his luck and crept closer. Edging nearer and nearer to the authority figure that reminded him of his own squad leader, he pressed in close to whisper to Onslaught.

“…is he always like this?”

Onslaught just pinched the bridge of his nasal sensor and whacked Breakdown away with a groan.

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Blast Off whispered. "Hey!”

The group of naked, organic soldiers huddled in the cell next to him jerked and peered over at the lone Cybertronian in a sea of green faces.

“Any idea where we are going?”

The brow-beaten front-line soldiers seemed loath to speak, but finally after some persistent pestering by the shuttle-former, one of them stepped close.

“They are taking us to the breeding colony on Therus.”

Blast Off licked his lip plating. The expected separation from the other Cybertronians had happened that morning, and he was further dismayed when he was dumped into a cell on a Quint transport ship, surrounded by all sides with cells full of these organics. Fingering the ύ symbol burned into his thigh, he asked the question grinding his processor, “What does that mean, though?”

“For you?” The organic eyed him thoughtfully. “Breeding stock I guess.”

At Blast Off’s horrified look the trooper just shrugged. “You mechs are going to be replacing us as front-liners on the battlefield, is what we heard.” The organic sounded skeptical and several others behind him hissed denials. “But not soon. There’s too few of you. Breeder’s not a bad life…kind of boring, maybe.”

“They can’t replace us,” another trooper hissed at the first. “We’ve always served them loyally!”

Another snorted in disgust. “As if that means anything.”

“It’s not a cull,” the first turned away from Blast Off, his tone insistent. “They don’t have enough Cybertronians to replace us.”

“Then why confiscate our armor and weapons? Why keep us here and not in the barracks?!”

“At least I will see my mate and child, it has been a year since I last _–_ ”

“But it’s not the season for _–_ ”

“We’ve been obedient! Obedience means mercy! We’ve all been loyal!”

Blast Off blinked at the frightened troops. “The Quints haven’t told you why you are here?”

He couldn’t tell the difference between them as organics all looked the same to him. It didn’t help that they were all wearing identical expressions of fear, and sporting one cyber-bionic optic. Pin-pricks of light glowed from it, the effect rather eerie with so many little red dots flickering across the cells as they looked around in the gloom.

The first organic turned back to him, lowering his head. “It’s not the season for breeding, and I heard they separated us out by half.”

“That’s a cull,” the second organic hissed. “They are going to kill us!”

“They don’t have any reason for that _–_ ”

“They do if they don’t need so many of us because of them! They calculate every drop of rations they feed us! Data lines! We are all nothing more than columns of numbers to them! _”_

“–bloodlines haven’t been the same since Alpha Q’s new breeding policy. We are dropping too many malformations _–_ ”

“That’s not our fault! It was their line-breeding policies that _–_ ”

“The malformations are minor anyway, nothing to be concerned over. My daughter was born with bad lenses, but the Allicon assured me the Masters would be merciful and that optical implants weren’t prohibitively expensive _–_ ”

“ _–_ we are all going to _die!_ ”

Everyone in the cells froze when the bar in their internal control HUDs began blinking in warning; ticking one notch to the right for the noise disruption. Everyone fell silent. The organic troopers, divested of their warm armor, huddled together for warmth in fearful groups while Blast Off stared at the blinking light in the right eye of every trooper.

 _Their one cyber-optic must be equipped with a HUD,_ he realized.

“We don’t know for sure,” the first organic finally whispered as he stepped away to rejoin his brothers. “The Allicons won’t explain why we have been separated.”

“I know how you feel,” Blast Off muttered as he settled back against the wall, his own face plates reflecting that same fear, akin to the green-skins in the cells all around him. With a sigh, he fingered his brand with a deep sense of dread.

 

* * *

 

“Ratchet is still not back.”

Optimus Prime’s deep voice was full of worry. He kept his vocalizer low, as disruptive chatter among slaves was a punishable offense.

Standing in the communal cell with Sideswipe, they were the only ones left as the others had already been taken away to be ‘stripped’. Ratchet had been the first one collected, and so far none of the missing Autobots have been returned to the containment cells.

Optimus suppressed the urge to pace, wanted to avoid any movements that might be considered aggressive. Instead he stared down at his abdominals, the only hint of swelling below was the growing tightness across his lower chest plates, and he winced.

“They are coming back.” Sideswipe eyed the approaching guards while clenching his fists. The Allicons appeared shortly after, and the energy bars faded as they gestured for Optimus to follow them.

Optimus looked over his shoulder at Sideswipe and set his denta. He might have fought them, but he wanted to know where the others were, and he wouldn’t learn that while twitching on the floor of their cell while burning under their pain charges. Then they would drag him towards his fate anyway, and the end result would be the same.

He offered Sideswipe a wan smile, his faint expression showing through the softening of his optics, his blast mask still hiding his lower face plates.

"Follow us," the Allicon ordered.

Optimus stepped into the corridor and began to follow the Allicons as the energy bars re-materialized an instant later. The slow clunk of his reluctant pede steps faded when he disappeared down the corridor to face his fate.

*******

 

Sideswipe watched as the guards forced Optimus Prime out of their shared cell. He clenched his fists in a heady mix of aggression and fear as the dignified blue and red mech disappeared down the corridor to the unknown chambers beyond.

Sideswipe was left alone with his worries.

Though he had stood with Prime against the Quintesson, he hadn’t understood the full consequences of his choice. He hadn’t realized just how cruel his captors could be.

At least the bar in his HUD was now off-line, permanently gray. They had clicked off when the re-training phases ended, and the others were removed and then returned to the cells every few days with tales of forced joining and newly active gestation tanks.

He absentmindedly rubbed at his abdominals, and then drew his servo away as if it burnt. There was a second spark within him now, and he was deeply disturbed for it. He had no idea if the spark he was carrying was affected by the pain charges as he was, and he didn’t know what to do anymore. He wasn’t prepared to face this…he wasn’t sure he would have stayed the course if he’d any idea this would be the result of defiance.

He also wasn’t prepared for extended separation from Sunstreaker again. He could still feel his brother’s dismay through their bond, could imagine the reaction from his twin… _what are you doing?! Just kill the stupid aliens like they demand! It’s not worth it!_

Standing with Prime instead of yielding to the torture for the sake of his own plating as so many of the Autobots had done seemed more and more a terrible mistake. Ashamed for his creeping doubts, he strained to peer down the far corridor for the hundredth time that joor. 

He was the only one left now.

_I miss Sunny._

When the Allicon finally came for him, he responded as he always did when facing down impossible enemies and impossible odds; he fought them with everything he had. The pain-charges finally wore him down enough that they could drag him out of the cell and towards what awaited him.

Hauled down a long corridor, he heard the others long before he caught sight of them, and their dreadful cries horrified him.

He saw Prime first, now strapped down to a table in a stark medical alcove as they dragged him past. He could tell the Prime had fought them when he discovered their intentions; the medical alcove next door was in shambles, and they had just finished binding him down in the next one over.

The stripping process was already underway.

 _They are cutting away his plating,_ Sideswipe realized. Stunned, he recognized the pieces of blue and red armor, now splattered with internal fluid, piling up on the floor. He saw the technicians cutting plate panel after plate panel away. He shuddered as Prime lost his battle to suffer in silence, horrified by those terrible sounds, that deep voice joining the pained cries already echoing down the corridor.

As Sideswipe was dragged past the next alcove, he saw something that dropped his spark even further into his pedes.

Wheeljack’s plating was gone, and only his bare protoform remained. But that wasn’t the full extent of the process, for his helm was open with his brain module exposed, and the Quintesson technician was busy cutting away a section of his processor with a hot blade. From the strangled cries, Sideswipe knew ‘Jack was fully awake and aware of what was happening to him.

The next alcove held Ratchet, and as the first taken, he was the first to see the process to completion.

They were busy releasing the old medic from the straps, and his helm also showed signs of tampering. Soaked with internal fluid, he was shaking from the surgery he had endured, and the tiny piece of severed processor lay discarded on the floor.

Worse was the look in Ratchet’s optics as they dragged him back towards another part of the facility, likely to face even more torments in this endless, horror-filled cycle. The old medic was trying to curse his tormentors, but the words wouldn't come.

 _He can’t speak anymore,_ Sideswipe realized with horror. _They are removing the part of us that processes language so we can’t talk with each other, to better control us._

Sideswipe fought like a maniac but the Allicons just lashed him until he couldn't feel his pedes.  They dragged him along towards the farthest alcove, and he could see the technicians waiting for him.

"This is the last of the reassigned Cybertronians," the Allicon advised them, "until the next group arrives. The next scheduled transport will dock in a few deca-cycles."

“You are aware they may lose the protoforms they are gestating for the stress induced by the procedure?” The technician asked, not wanting to be unduly blamed for mishandling assets.

Sideswipe managed to kick out a pede and shove back away from the medical table, and the lesser handlers were hard-pressed, while the head Allicon and the techs watched with detached expressions.

“Gestating assets are currently unrecorded,” the Allicon answered. “Any surviving will be a bonus. It will look good on the report for the Grand Assessor. There were no added costs involved.”

The handler was quick to add that last part. The technician nodded as added costs were high on the list of things to avoid. He watched as the other Allicon began to wrestle Sideswipe onto the medical table. "How many in the next group?"

"Only one," the Allicon answered. "They are more valuable when they behave, and the Masters are loath to remove them from active service."

"But there are many here," the technician asked, succumbing to dangerous curiosity while warming up his heavy slicer, even as Sideswipe thrashed and flailed, optics wild.

The Allicon grunted.

"These refused to follow military instructions up to the point of their own destruction. The Masters have signed off on them for reassignment as replenishment only."

"Thus they do not need their armor or language to fulfill their new primary function." The technician grunted in understanding. "They will be much safer to handle after the procedure. I had wondered. This process would be most costly to reverse."

Sideswipe whispered an apology to his brother as the welder finally grew hot enough for use. His fuel pump pounded as the technician finished adjusting his optical shield-mask and readied his cutting implement, the blade at the tip burning white-hot.

"Do not question the wisdom of the Masters," the Allicon threatened, and the technician flinched and then bent to task.

Sideswipe knew Sunstreaker would suffer as he did, just as he felt whenever the golden twin was injured in battle. Sunny would have no choice but to share his pain tonight.

Then the Quintesson technicians started the process, and the screams began.

 

* * *

 

Worlds away, imprisoned on a Quintesson battle ship hurtling towards an unsuspecting planet named Cybrus, Sunstreaker dropped to his knees in his tiny transport cell. He matched his distant twin cry for cry and startled the other Cybertronians awake. They jolted and jerked and sat up with soft mumbles of confusion, and soon a mishmash of blue and red optics were peering at Sunstreaker from all down the corridor.

“Hey mech,” Swindle whispered from an adjoining containment cell, his vocalizer soft with apology. “You better quiet down or they are going to come for you.”

Disruptions and noisy chatter of any sort were punishable offenses. Everyone knew the cells contained listening devices and frequency scramblers, along with constant visual surveillance.

“Frag you,” Sunstreaker choked back.

But Sunstreaker clutched at his chest and managed to clamp his denta over his lip plating, internal fluid dripping down his handsome face plates as he forced himself to be silent. He knew the guards would merrily pile more suffering onto his frame if given any excuse.

The Quintesson were well aware that controlling communication was the first step towards true control. Anything more than quiet words or sounds would cause the guards to investigate, and if they had to make the trip down to the containment cells they were bringing a world of hurt with them.

The aggressive Cybertronians required a _very_ firm hand.

Long breems passed as Sunstreaker shuddered and heaved. He could feel every plate and component and wire cut from his twin’s frame. There was no pause and no regard for his brother beyond mere survival.

_‘Sides … what the frag are they doing to you?!_

Sunstreaker could feel his twin fighting against whatever was happening to him. The golden twin was helplessly enraged while sharing every twisting agony. Optical fluid dripped down his face plates to mix with the internal fluid streaming from his lips and glossa where he had bit down on them.

Then the agony ended … the termination from Sideswipe’s end abrupt as the thread between the two halves of a shared spark stretched and _snapped_.

Sunstreaker choked, a strange and horrible whine escaping his clenched teeth. He sucked in atmosphere between grinding denta, shocked for the dread silence in his half-spark. The absence of the other half of him meant only one thing … and then there was no quieting the screams.


	7. Ochlocracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which plans are implemented and fists are eaten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** This story can get very dark, and please be aware of that. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :)

 

**ONE MONTH AGO:**

_'Are you ready?'_

Onslaught gestured to Brawl in Hand, his finger motions subtle as he walked, while struggling to keep his excitement in check. His body appeared deceptively calm, but his visor flashed; he'd been waiting for this moment since the day he woke up in this fresh hell.

 _'I was batched ready,'_ Brawl assured him with blunted finger-signs, sharing his excitement.

In high orbit above Emoojora, they were walking together towards the Quintesson battleship’s hanger, along with the rest of the enslaved Cybertronians that comprised this contingent, escorted by their wary handlers.

The Quintesson drop ship was ready and the next phase of the Emoojorian invasion was at hand. The first phase had gone well, despite Megatron’s original warnings to his Allicon, a fact his handler snidely reminded him of every chance he could.

Megatron’s escape plan (adjusted and coordinated by Onslaught) was finally preparing to kick off as Hook had finished his part of the plan late in the night cycle … just in time for this morning’s deployment.

That morning the Quintesson had ordered everyone from their cells and marched them towards the hanger for what should be a normal deployment to the surface. Everyone tromping towards the hanger had a part to play in the escape attempt. There was an electric tension in the air, an unavoidable current of eagerness that everyone struggled to keep from showing. Although the Allicon could sense the intensity and seemed nervous, so far everything was going to plan.

Just the way Onslaught liked it.

Even better, he could see Swindle and Vortex in the mass of Cybertronians, though they were too far away to speak with. Blast Off had been transferred somewhere else, but that was a concern for later.

 _'Wait for the signal,'_ he continued his final instructions. _'The scrambler Hook cobbled together won’t last for more than a few breems. The shutdown collars won’t work, but their miserable pain charges will, and I don’t want to see you even flinch you vicious fragger.'_

Behind his blast mask, Brawl was nothing short of beaming, utterly beside himself for the upcoming carnage. _'I won’t if you won’t.'_

Onslaught grinned back, both expressions unseen but the sentiment still felt through the gestalt bond. _'The instant their control frequencies go down, we murder the hell out of these sons of glitches. Maximum prejudice, I want these walls coated with pieces of dead Allicons!'_

Brawl couldn’t wait.

_'Just say the word! I aim to maim!'_

*******

Megatron felt a rush of hot excitement jolt through his back strut as he strode through the inner blast doors and into the massive hanger with the others.

The far outer doors were open, the cold vastness of space held at bay by a force field, and he could see the blue-green planet beyond them. His body still ached bitterly, but today all of the added pain he'd endured would be worth it.

Megatron, Onslaught, and several other key mechs had been acting up almost nonstop the last few days, keeping the Allicon’s attention focused on the troublemakers. Their resistance to the pain charges meant they remained functional when more sensitive mechs would have been left a shaky mess.

Megatron used his original complaints against the Emoojorian campaign as his excuse, and had harried and shouted and threatened his Allicon to distraction the last few days, covering Hook’s furtive work. His Allicon’s control panel had been left smoking, but as soon as Hook was finished, he had made a show of falling back under control.

His Allicon watched him suspiciously as he walked, and multiple times his gaze dropped to Megatron’s knee joint, finally noting the occasional stumble. It was good, _very good,_ that Hook had finished his work so soon.

Throngs of carefully controlled Cybertronians were moving all around him, and Megatron noted them as he walked … there was Onslaught, Brawl, and the rest of the Combaticons walking further ahead. The Constructicons were scattered about … _excellent._ There were multiple Autobots that he only recently cared to recall the names of … the blue was Skids, that one was Pipes, and the golden one was Sunstreaker.

Megatron tilted his head slightly to the left, and following up the rear was Skywarp, Thrust, Ion Storm, and there was Thundercracker … he instinctively searched for white wings and the smirking grin of a pit-spawned glitch, but violently corrected himself. His spark clenched painfully within him and he pushed those thoughts away.

… _must stay focused_.

Onslaught’s fingers flicked subtly at him, confirming the Combaticons were ready.

Megatron managed to maintain an appearance of perfect calm, but the warbuild was unable to keep from working his intakes in wild anticipation for the carnage to come, his glossa tracing over the roof of his mouth. There was _so much_ he needed to repay them for _…_ so much forever lost.

His hated Allicon was walking next to him, huffing and grunting final instructions while preparing to leave. The cowardly controller intended to direct his efforts from a position of safety on the command ship’s bridge.

_Today I repay you for what you have done to me … for what you’ve taken from me … for the atrocities you have committed against us all. This day will be soaked with the blood of my enemies, my vengeance brutal and without mercy._

Megatron gulped in a mouthful of atmosphere, his spark twisting within him. _I will make you suffer._

_I will crush your servos and tear your limbs from your body and bludgeon you with them until your flesh is nothing more than ruined pulp, rip your optics from their sockets and force them down your throat, make you beg for your life and–_

“Are you paying attention?” The Allicon snorted in warning.

“I am,” Megatron answered coldly as he continued to stride towards the squat, hulking drop ship, prodded along by the assistants.

Hook caught his optic and his fingers twitched in confirmation. The Constructicons were as excited as the rest and the surgeon chewed his lip plating in giddy anticipation. They all had scores to settle, and today was that wonderful, wonderful cycle when revenge was at hand.

_On the count of five…_

Megatron stopped and raised his servos above his helm and shouted theatrically, “Do I not obey?”

The signal given…

_One…_

The Allicon’s assistants snorted at his insolent tone.

“Watch yourself,” His Allicon hissed. He tapped the control bar on his wrist threateningly, and then turned and began to hurry away. “I am expected on the command deck,” he called over his shoulder to his assistants.

_Three…_

Megatron narrowed his optics and half turned, staring balefully after the retreating wretch. He was suddenly worried that his Allicon would make it back through the blast doors before he could reach the fragger. He wanted his servos around that thick neck first thing…

“Keep moving,” the assistant hissed and jabbed him with the pain stick.

Megatron grunted and stepped forward with a slight stumble, his knee complaining. _Very well then … second thing. Right after I finish off these two…_

_Mark!_

“Now!” Onslaught roared.

Hook activated his makeshift scrambler, the electronics began to flicker, and everyone turned on their handlers an instant later.

Megatron whirled on the two Allicon assistants within his reach as sheer brutal mayhem exploded around him. Shrieks of surprise filled the docking bay, the sweetest music as the Allicons wasted precious time mashing blunt fingers into control panels that didn’t respond to their frantic prodding.

Hook had completed his task even better than he could have hoped. The little device had been cobbled together in secret from pieces of his frame and donated parts from the mechs in his cell, and it was working _fantastically_. Even the control panels on the wall were flickering.

Megatron’s razor-smile went wide; there would be no pain charges from the Allicon now.

Realizing the dire nature of the situation, the first assistant stabbed at him with a pain-stick, shrieking commands he knew Megatron wouldn't obey. Dodging, Megatron narrowly avoided another painful burn, and then tore the weapon from those thick hands. A violent kick to the wretch's mid-section resulted in a most pleasing crumple of metal, and the Allicon went down with a gasp.

The pain-stick then served as a spear, which Megatron gleefully plunged into the Allicon’s gaping maw. The business end pierced the thick throat and Megatron thrust upwards, plunging his weapon deep into his enemy's brain-module. The wretch's death arrived in the form of an agonizing ball of lightening-pain behind his optics.

Distracted by the delightful carnage, Megatron finished off the first assistant with relish. Its internal fluids splattered his frame in pleasing spirals. Dropping the first one, he tore after the second when the assistant stopped spewing useless threats and prudently turned to run.

As he chased down and began dispatching the second assistant, Megatron saw a flash of gold in the corner of his optic as Sunstreaker tore into his Allicon with brutal efficiency. He reduced the creature to a pile of twitching limbs, his face wild with hate, to Megatron’s intense approval.

“Riot! Riot! We need help down here! The war-mechs are rioting!”

Megatron whirled when he heard his Allicon shrieking into the manual communication panel from his position near the inner blast doors. In response to the warning, lights began to flash and all the emergency doors and entrances began to seal.

“Don’t run off you miserable wretch!” Megatron roared after him. He charged towards his hated Allicon at full throttle, soaked with the vital fluids of his enemies and deliriously happy for it. “You and I have _so much_ to discuss!”

But the Allicon was too far away.

Megatron’s joy shattered into a roar of fury as his weak knee gave out on him. The upset sent him sprawling to the floor. Although he was right back up, the precious seconds lost proved costly. They gave the wretch enough time to transform into a crude beast mode. Fleeing for all he was worth, the Allicon managed to dart through the closing blast doors, reaching safety only a micron before Megatron smashed into the sealed doors.

“This pathetic wall won’t save you!” Megatron roared, punching a sizable dent into the dingy metal, but his spark dropped deep into his chest plates. _I wasted too much time on his assistants and now I don't have enough time to chase him down. Damn it all!_

“Lord Megatron!” Onslaught yelled. “We have a problem!”

Turning, Megatron noted with grim satisfaction that at least every other Allicon within the hanger was now dead in an orgy of slaughter. His blood-splattered mechs were following instructions frantically, desperate for escape.

“The Quintesson locked down the drop ship by remote! We have a specialist working on it, but we may have to defend the hanger until we can regain control.”

Megatron rumbled in irritation and started yelling out orders, organizing defense as Onslaught happily rounded up his team, smashing fists in greeting first with Vortex and then Swindle.

Meanwhile, Skids was busy hacking the drop ship, his fingers flying over the controls. Behind him, Skywarp was hovering with twitching wings, helping by providing entirely unneeded commentary. “Hurry before they reset everything!”

“I _am_ hurrying, Captain Obvious!” Skids snapped back over his shoulder. “They are overriding us from the bridge, trying to shut everything down!”

Megatron strode forward with a scowl and began issuing orders to the mechs standing around and watching Skids hack the ship. “Move the haulers against the blast doors. I want them reinforced to keep the Allicon out!”

Everyone leapt to obey and began mech-handling the machinery into place, the harsh _scree_ of metal being dragged over tarnished metal filling the air along with hot, flickering sparks.

“Aw, come on, please Primus, give a mech a break,” Breakdown whined. Brawl turned at the panicked sound of his vocalizer, looking out past the outer bay doors. His mouth quirked behind his blast mask as he caught sight of what the Stunticon was whining about.

“Hey Onslaught!” Brawl pulled out his best _you ain’t gonna believe this_ tone as he yelled over his shoulder, “Those don’t look like Quint ships!”

“What are you talking about–” and Onslaught trailed off while staring out the open hanger at the massive fleet that just warped into view.

Megatron identified the newcomers as he stepped next to Onslaught. “The Galactic Council. They have come to intervene on behalf of the Emoojorians, just as I warned these fools they would.”

Onslaught frowned. He was already adding them as a factor into the escape plan, and he didn't like the new results.

“And late to the party as usual … so typical of organic inefficiency.” Megatron’s words were dismissive, but there were a sizable number of ships surrounding their flagship; nothing short of a swarm of organic filth. His disgust for the lesser beings deepened into concern when he recognized the hulking flagship as _The Benign Intervention._

“This is just like the Cetus operation,” Onslaught muttered. He was not so quick to dismiss the organics and their capabilities. "Too damned many of them. They get bold when we are too far inside their borders."

Megatron scowled as the Galactic Council fleet began an aggressive approach. He could already see their weapon systems warming up, and laid his servo on Onslaught’s shoulder. “This changes nothing. We move forward with the plan!”

“Yes sir,” Onslaught answered. He turned and strode away, shouting for everyone to drop what they were doing and get aboard the drop ship. The escapees began piling into the vessel while the Constructicons finished barricading the inner blast doors; hopefully to slow down any attempts to reclaim them.

Already there were sounds of re-grouping on the other side, and the inner blast doors jerked and began to open. Thanks to their efforts, there was enough in the way to hold the Quintesson off, but the extra reprieve wouldn’t last.

“Get that drop ship online now,” Megatron roared over the din, “or we won’t be leaving this ship in one piece!”

Hook tapped at the smoking device cobbled together inside his wrist panel. “This scrambler won’t last much longer,” he called warning to Megatron as he lumbered into the drop ship with his brothers.

Visor flashing, Hook shoved Scavenger out of the way with a baleful hiss, knocking him into the drop ship wall. Then Hook was promptly whacked in return by Long Haul – _yeah you just try that slag again_ – and the heavy hauler’s optics were harsh with warning.

“I’ve got it!” Skids yelled, though his vocalizer was drowned out by the triumphant sound of the drop ship’s engines powering up. Haggard cheers went up from inside the ship.

"You the mech, Skids!" Pipes cheered.

There was one last flicker and then the lights went out, plunging the loading bay into darkness. All chatter cut out instantly. With only the stars and their bodies as a source of light, the drop ship became a scatter point of flickering blue and red as numerous sets of optics darted around in sudden panic.

“They are resetting everything! We only got kliks left!”

“Launch now!” Megatron ordered as Onslaught dove through the closing doors. Megatron slammed them shut and the locks sealed with a heavy clatter. They lifted off and flew out the outer bay doors, and Skids began maneuvering the drop ship down and away.

Charging into the cockpit, Megatron pushed the yammering Skywarp out of the way and leaned over Skids' shoulder. His optics scanned over the indicators and he looked pleased to see Skids had the ship well in servo, though he kept all unhelpful chatter to himself.

"Guide us away from the fleet and down to the planet below," Megatron ordered while tapping at a display panel. "We have a better chance of shaking pursuit if we skim the planet surface."

“Alright." Skids tried not to sound as nervous as he felt. He had to force himself not to flinch away from the powerful black servo resting on the back of his seat. Those dark, scarred fingers were far too close for comfort. This was _Megatron_ standing behind him after all, and he swallowed carefully.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it as several of the Galactic Council ships immediately gave chase. They were moving far faster than the bulky drop ship was capable of evading. Even worse was the ominous shut down and then reactivation of the control collars around their necks. Everyone startled, grabbing at their necks as the vile devices began blinking, as if reset and awaiting programming.

Long Haul yelled out, “The Quints must have reset our collars by remote–”

“Not them,” Hook hissed, tapping the collar he was inspecting, still clamped tight around Skywarp's neck. “The Galactic Council are responsible for this.”

Standing meekly for the massive servos poking at his neck collar, Skywarp shot a fearful look at Thundercracker and swallowed noisily. Newly-reunited, they were standing as close together as possible with Thundercracker's fingers clamped in a possessive death-grip around his trine mate’s arm.

Megatron frowned over his shoulder while dragging his fingers along the hated device. He was sorely tempted to just rip it off, but was unsure how much damage it would cause. "How quickly can you remove them?"

"Not fast enough," Hook said. "They are wired too deep into our–"

The shutdown code came through an instant later. Mouths fell open in wordless cries and back struts arched as lightening raced through their processors. Then the entire mass slumped as one onto the floor, a colorful mish-mash of unconscious frames. Seconds later, a tow-cable hooked them and the Galactic Council vessel began to reel them in like a catch of tropical fish.

Meanwhile in orbit, _The Benign Intervention_ was spear-heading the Galactic Council’s inquiry into the situation on their borders.

Captain K'gard adjusted his stupid hat as his half-assed attempt at diplomacy failed and the Quintesson Acquisition fleet and The Galactic Council peace-keeping forces prepared to settle their differences the old fashioned way.

“I hate the Quintesson,” Captain K’gard muttered to his sub-commander as he gave the order to open fire.

 

* * *

 

 

A few hours later and Brawl awoke to the cheerful greeting of yet another featureless cell. He lay on his back plates for awhile, blinking owlishly up at the gray ceiling. Slowly his optics brought into focus the Galactic Council’s insipid logo, plastered over absolutely everything. ‘Funded by the people for the people!’ read the cheery label in standard (flapping meat) galactic.

“Son of a glitch!” Brawl roared.

Long Haul smacked at his helm to clear the static and staggered to his pedes. He immediately began locating the rest of the Constructicons, scowling when he noted Scavenger was alone with Hook in a cell almost too far away.

“I hate my life,” Breakdown whined from nearby, sprawled under the lovely and still unconscious frame of Sunstreaker.

Skids blinked and sat up, clutching at his aching helm. “Well, at least it’s not a _Quintesson_ cell block … prisoners instead of slaves … that’s something, right guys?”

In the cell across from him, Skywarp tried to shake Thundercracker’s wing through the bars of his adjacent cell and accidentally brushed his own wing against them.

_Bzzt!_

“That fragging _hurts_ ,” Skywarp hissed, rubbing at his wing irritably. But he looked relieved when his trine mate began to stir for the noise.

“Megatron?” Pipes whispered. He began poking at the unconscious frame, a single finger prodding at dark metal in the timid way one might investigate a venomous serpent that may or may _not_ be dead… and then hurtled towards the far end of the cell when said dangerous frame began to stir.

 _Definitely_ not dead.

Pipes was climbing the walls now, entirely unsure if that was good or bad for his future well-being. Taking a risk, he cleared his intakes from his position as far away – _to the micron! –_  from Glorious Leader as possible.

“Um, bad news… uh… sir… glorious mighty leader lord Megatron…?”

The last honorific came out with a whimper that sounded suspiciously like _please don’t kill me_!

Megatron groaned and opened his optics, rubbing at his face plates, beyond sick and tired of booting up cold. His optics narrowed as he processed his new surroundings and he was up on his pedes half an instant later. His furious bellow echoed down the cells, fists railing against a heaven he didn’t believe in, raised in a gesture of _why Primus why_?!

Behind him, Pipes fainted.

 

* * *

“We demand the immediate return of all captured assets!”

The Grand Assessor shrilled his demands through _The_ _Benign Intervention's_ main vid screen, the bulbous Quintesson waving its tentacles hysterically. They had already lost most of the gestating carrier-protocol mechs a few weeks ago in a slave revolt. This further loss of such a high number of essential assets would constitute monumental failure in the eyes of the Imperial Asset Inquisitors ( _hallowed by thy tendrils_ ).

Captain K'gard snorted.

His triumphant smirk remained unmoved by all the frantic noises coming from the leader of the defeated Quintesson battleships, currently under escort back to Quintesson space on threat of burning, flaming, _death_.

Two cycles into their forcible escort, and Captain K’gard’s hatred for the Quintesson had grown by leaps and bounds. Wielding The Code like a blunt instrument, he once again clobbered the frantic Quintesson Assessor over the… _head? What sort of monstrosity had a need for five faces? –_ with suitably heavy reams of political and bureaucratic red tape.

“Under section eight of the Code of Interplanetary Conflict,” he initiated said clobbering, “the Galactic Council may seize any machinery currently in use for purposes of aggression within Council space.”

“This is an _outrage_! We demand your complete capitulation to our–”

“End communication,” Captain K'gard sniffed, and sighed with pleasure when the unpleasant visage of the Grand Assessor disappeared from his main vid screen.

 _Quintesson are especially unnatural,_ he decided. Folding his second pair of arms, his frown deepened as he regarded their ships trailing behind his flagship in abject defeat. _They don’t even have a proper set of appendages. What rubbish._

A nervous-looking subordinate approached the Captain, his second pair of hands clasped respectfully behind his back. Returned from the brig with a report, he didn’t look happy with the results of his inspection.

“Sub-commander? Have you inspected the prisoners?”

“Yes sir,” he confirmed with a pensive gesture. “They are, all of them, threat level 10. They refuse to identify themselves, and their leader is still demanding to speak with you. He is most insistent.”

“I have no patience for further irritation today,” the Captain waved one of his hands. He had no patience for Cybertronians any day actually, though there was no need to point that out as everyone knew how he felt about level ten threats.

Captain K'gard shook his head, his hat bobbing dangerously. “They will remain in the brig and we will hand them over to the courts for judgment.”

The sub-commander still looked nervous. “You know we could just dump them on the next empty world we come across. If we keep them in custody, that means we have to provide fuel for them at taxpayer expense, not to mention if they manage to escape confinement–”

“No sub-commander, we cannot ‘just dump them’. The Quintesson would immediately reclaim them, and then we would face them in combat again. We were fortunate to uncover the control codes for their collars this time … and there won’t be a next time, not for these mechs. As for possible escape … really now, have some faith in your troops.”

With a nervous, “Yes sir,” the sub-commander turned and padded away, leaving the Captain in peace.

It didn’t last.

“The Quintesson are contacting us again, and they are insisting to speak with you, Captain. They are citing Section 3, paragraph 14 in regards to peaceful negotiations between species in conflict.”

 _Bah. No way around that section..._ “Very well. On the main vid screen, then.”

Captain K'gard muttered several colorful epitaphs to himself for the umpteenth time that cycle as he mentally prepared for the verbal battle to come.

The frantic Grand Assessor once again disgraced his main vid screen and he scowled. Arguing with the Quintesson was like deep-kissing an angry celestial-squid during preliminary diplomatic rituals on Tenkalis III… unpleasant for both parties, with thrashing squid tentacles absolutely _everywhere_. 

Staring down the Grand Assessor was giving him nervous flashbacks to his mandatory diplomatic service in the corps and he shuddered.

_You can have your damned Cybertronians back over my dead, rotting carcass … this is a matter for the Galactic Courts now._

 

* * *

 

 

**PRESENT DAY:**

 

Megatron glowered at the arrogant members of the Galactic Council Tribunal, his posture tight and threatening.

The pompous judicial pavilion towered above him, and the presiding judge looked over decorated to Megatron's harsh optics; covered with various robes and medallions and other superfluous finery, the ridiculous visage was completed by a silly-looking hat.

 _Formal idiocy meant to bedazzle their addled masses to hide their inadequacies ..._ suffice to say, Megatron was not impressed. Worse, the courtroom was overflowing with various organic races eager to watch the spectacle.

The original Quintesson collar and heavy shackles remained welded to him, keeping him locked down and under control. The control codes had been cracked by their goons and the wretched things had allowed their re-capture by the Galactic Council.

On the verge of escape, instead they had traded one form of captivity for another. Now they were facing 'justice,' organic style, over Quintessa’s furious complaints. The only saving grace was they didn't recognize him as Megatron the Destroyer, as his new frame was so different from his original one. He couldn't have corrected them even if he wanted to, as the gag in his intakes forced him into silence.

More proof of organic stupidity. _Thinking should be left for those with the circuits for it._

_Being captured by these fools is no better than remaining enslaved to the Quintesson. I even warned those Allicon imbeciles that annexing the Ejoornian homeworld would be a disastrous campaign. Only fools would conduct such operations so close to the Galactic Council’s military supply lines–_

A buzzing whine caught his attention as a recording drone flew overhead.

 _They are recording this ridiculous trial,_ he realized and straightened his back strut another few microns. With a scowl he affected a regal air, his hatred for the organics growing ever hotter. _Enjoy this mockery while it lasts … it is only a matter of time before I make you pay for this indignity._

Megatron narrowed his optics at the organics deciding his fate, his throttled engine rumbling in surges within his chest. Fresh hate flowed from his spark as he envisioned ending their lives for the umpteenth time that cycle.

Wincing, he swallowed around the gag, irritated for the oral lubricant dripping down the corner of his mouth. There was a simmer of charge down below, his frame – still affected by active guardian coding – uselessly reminding him of his obligations to his carrier mech. He worked the gag in his intakes, endlessly frustrated.

_Pathetic. If not for this miserable Quintesson technology I would kill you all. I refuse to comply with your absurdity and I swear you will rue the day you dared bring me here._

The creature holding his control panel stood some distance away, sweat dripping down the pathetic organic’s pasty body as it nervously fingered the controls. The sight brought Megatron a small measure of satisfaction, as did the splatters of dried Allicon internal fluid still coating his frame.

Even while locked down and helpless, the organics remained terrified of him, and they were wise to be fearful. This trial had the same pretentious feel as the Quintesson’s own judicial proceedings, and he would merrily kill every last one of them if only he could.

 _Regrettable as it is,_ Megatron realized, _but for these miserable control devices there will be no vengeance today._

His gaze flicked inwards as he eyed the Quintesson tech still present in his HUD. The punishment bar was still gray and offline. The Galactic Council and their cronies were unable to reactivate it (though not for lack of trying).

Megatron readjusted his weight on his shackled pedes, his knee joint aching. He ignored the pain, for worse was his frustration as the organics continued to blather on and on about his crimes against them.

 _Never mind we only committed these so called ‘crimes’ while under control of the Quintesson,_ he answered the prosecutor, though only from the court of his own mind.

_Never mind the wretched beings actually responsible for the invasions remain absent from these ridiculous proceedings, and your pathetic kangaroo court hasn’t even mentioned the Quintesson except in the most antiseptic of terms._

He was furious that instead of using their capture as an opportunity to push back against the Quintesson’s aggressive empire building, the Galactic Council seemed content to punish the slave army while sidestepping the tricky business of facing down the politically powerful Quintesson.

Megatron was almost relieved when the proceedings finally came to a head and the mass verdict was read out.

“We pronounce you guilty of all charges–”

 _Well, obviously!_ Megatron mentally roared at them. _Now get to the point for spark’s sake before I deactivate from sheer irritation!_

“–with your guilt shared across the entirety of your species. You and your race are guilty of the following crimes–”

Megatron rocked back on his pedes, amazed for the sheer audacity of the verdict. _That is not a legal ruling… not even among these backward organics!_

Once again he strained against the metal gag in his intakes, the gag ensuring he couldn’t challenge their pronouncements. He looked over at the organic standing near him, his so-called defense orator (he wasn’t sure why they had bothered to appoint one). He wasn’t surprised to see the glitch nodding solemn acceptance for the verdict.

Megatron had not even met the organic assigned as their court appointed defense representative before this cycle. He listened with growing fury as the organic accepted the ruling as justified and even _apologized_ to the other organics in Megatron’s (council-assigned) designation.

Megatron glowered in helpless fury and continued to struggle against his bindings. In that moment his xenomorphic hatred knew no limits.

_Even if I managed to challenge them it would not save us. By the time this verdict is undone whatever punishment they intend will already be inflicted and likely that is the point of this complete waste of time._

Megatron's optics reflected his cold rage when the organics announced punishment shortly thereafter.

“–sentenced to death by disintegration,” the Judge announced. “ _However_ , it is with great regret that due to last minute objections from invested parties, I am forced to reduce punishment to a life sentence. This verdict shared by all Cybertronians as classed by species–”

_What?_

Bewildered, he shifted his weight on his pedes again. He had been expecting nothing short of immediate execution. Many of the organics started howling protests, disappointed with the ruling.

“In place of death,” the judge called out, “I sentence you and yours to the more lenient punishment of permanent incarceration on the prison world Uytis, in galaxy cluster Mora’ja.”

The protests died back when the judge named the prison world. Megatron could tell from the satisfied way the organics chattered amongst themselves that something in their so-called _lenient_ punishment was amiss.

Megatron bit down on his gag and startled when it sparked in his mouth, and he spat it away. He surged forward, intending to tell these vile organics where they can stick their pathetic ruling and false authority. The presiding judge froze and members of the court stumbled back in panic as he stepped forward to roar his objections at them.

An instant later the frantic controller slapped its sweaty palm over the panel and his entire body went white with pain. The world whirled and twisted around him. The vaulted ceiling filled his vision.

Then his back plates hit the ground with a _clunk_ as he dropped offline.

 

*******

 

_Starscream didn’t make a sound when the critical hit landed._

_He only stumbled for the force of the shot, wobbling in place for a long moment. Seconds later he collapsed onto his back plates and his intakes opened and closed in shock. Then he moaned as his internal fluids began gushing out of the burning hole in his abdominals._

_Megatron saw him fall, but could not stop mid-fight to aid him. Forced to leave Starscream behind, he continued forward even as he heard the other calling for him, begging for help. He had no choice but to continue to battle through the aggressive encounter with the natives of Cybrus._

_The blue-skinned organics they are invading at the behest of their Quintesson masters have everything to lose, and they are holding the line. He saw the besieged creatures ferrying their delicate males and young to safety in the distance. The larger, aggressive females charged towards the invaders, prepared to throw their lives away in defense of their families._

_The battle dragged on and on, and finally the call for retreat came. They had collected enough unfortunates for study that the encounter was considered a success by the Quintesson.  He headed back the way he had come, back towards where Starscream had fallen, and was horrified to find him still there. The medical drones completely ignored him._

_“Deactivated,” the Allicon controller yelled. “He's deactivated, leave him! I command you to return! You will obey!”_

_Then Starscream’s wing twitched and Megatron lurched towards him, optics wide. He saw the seeker’s servo clench in a feeble fist, his lip plating twisted in terrible pain._

_“He lives!” Megatron roared back at them, and knelt to lift the seeker’s prone body._

_Starscream was dying, but he was not gone yet._

_“He is too damaged, not worth the costs of repair,” one of the handlers yelled at him again and he recognized the miserable creature._

_That is Starscream’s controller, he realized._

_The wretch was giving up on Starscream early; clearly tired of dealing with the difficult mech and using this injury as an excuse to be done with him. Megatron bared his denta back at them as they gestured and shouted at him in threatening tones, ordering him to return to the drop ship._

_But Cybertronians are a hardy species, and they do not pass to the next life easily._

_Starscream still clung to life, though in this case it was unwise. The cleanup crews were coming. If the blank-faced workers had their way, Starscream would be carelessly thrown into the nearest furnace, smelted alive in his last moments._

_But Megatron grabbed hold of him and refused to release his grip._

_The controllers, including his own Allicon, continued to order him back to the Quintesson ship. He refused to obey and remained wrapped around Starscream and for all their brutality they cannot separate the two. He’s grown too accustomed to their punishments, and now when it mattered the most, Megatron refused to yield._

_They dragged him halfway back to the ship as their lashing pain-sticks and electro-whips and the control collar made it impossible to walk, but he would not unclasp his arms._

_Megatron finally struggled to his pedes under the insistent electro-whips and stumbled onto the ship ramp, ignoring their furious commands to drop Starscream. Now surrounded by both Decepticon and Autobot slaves, the others watched as he defied his handlers again and again._

_Starscream buried his face plates in his leader’s neck, lip plating forming faint glyphs. “Leave me, you fragging idiot,” he gasped, even as his arms tightened around Megatron. His electromagnetic fields were pulsing in pain and terror._

_“It’s Megatron!” somebot cried as they were both dragged away. “He is fighting them!”_

_Decepticon and Autobots alike shouted in uproar as they realize the situation. The miserable, aggressive Cybertronian slaves were lightning-quick to respond to any chance of uprising, and the Quintesson lackeys could tell the situation was threatening to boil out of control._

_A faltering whisper escaped Starscream’s dying frame, vents wet with internal fluid. “I … won. I defeated you. I brought peace. It was me… it was…”_

_Megatron squeezed him tighter. “Hold on, glitch.”_

_Finally realizing the futility, Megatron and Starscream found themselves dumped in solitary while the controllers lashed and shrieked at the rioting mechs. The cell grew dark and quiet as the wall re-materialized, cutting off the sounds of the Allicon as they slowly regained control of the situation._

_Megatron staggered to the back of the dark isolation cell. He slid to the ground, cradling the lighter body in his arms. “I have you,” he whispered, but Starscream was past the point of answering. His vocalizer rattled and his body strained as he prepared to leave for the Afterspark._

_Megatron swallowed, having so much he needed to say to this complicated… simultaneously hated and beloved mech. But for once in his long life words failed him. He squeezed the other close, and whispered an apology against a fading audial for the promises he couldn’t keep. It sickened him that this was the second time he'd failed someone that really mattered._

_With a last gasp, Starscream passed into the next life, his razor grin and endless schemes someone else’s quandary._

_The guards came back for Megatron hours later, pulling him out of the darkness of the temporary cell. Reluctant to obey, he finally allowed them to tear Starscream away. He watched as they dragged the now gun-metal-grey frame towards the ship’s trash furnaces._

_A sound left him then, as his old lover and mortal enemy was carelessly dragged away for disposal. He watched with stricken optics as Starscream’s body left a trail of curdling internal fluids in its wake._

_A soft moan of grief … the deepest wayment … escaped him. It was raw anguish for another he never imagined to find within._

_The next few astro-seconds were a blur as the Allicon dragged him towards the normal containment area, past cells of staring mechs. They dumped him back in his regular cell along with a full red bar to look forward to when the cycle ended for his disobedience._

_Megatron roared an expletive after them, and his Allicon blasted him with one last parting charge of pain as they took their leave. He only barely stayed on his pedes as his spark flared, torn with loss and rage._

_But his defiance against the masters had not gone unnoticed. All manner of Cybertronian strained in their cells to catch a glimpse of him now._

_Sunstreaker stared down the corridor where Megatron had passed, his customary hate-filled expression twisting as he recognized the pain of irreplaceable loss etched across the other’s face plates… kin to his own._

_Whispers drifted over to Megatron then; his designation called over and over. It was repeating in the voices further down the cells, and he could hear them, now filled with rekindled hope._

_A lone Dynobot thumped his huge pedes in approval._

_“Megatron!” he heard over and over, echoing down the corridors from cells filled with battered, enslaved mechs. “Megatron!” …and something tightened within his chest plates, his servos clenching into fists, determination filling him._

_I am getting us out of here, he promised himself. I will save what is left of us, come the furnace or the Afterspark._

_“Megatron will fight them!” cried another voice as the Allicon shrieked for silence._

_You are all mine now … every last one of you._

_Someone called out from the darkness, “We are with you sir!”_

*******

 

“Is he still alive?” Mixmaster whispered to Long Haul when the Galactic Council guards dragged Megatron past their cell. “He’s been gone for cycles. I thought they’d killed him for sure.”

Long Haul shook his helm. “Just knocked offline.”

“Do you think he’s still mad about the whole ... you know ... the drone army thing?” Mixmaster twisted his huge fingers nervously. He was the most spastic of the Constructicons, but what he lacked in common sense he made up for with loyalty (and caustic raw materials).

Long Haul eyed him for a moment, and then whacked him on his back plate companionably. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Mix. He needs us now more than ever. Just… don’t mention it, not even to apologize, alright?”

A few cells down, Hook hissed and waved at them to be quiet, and Long Haul glowered back at his quarrelsome team mate. He tapped at the collar around his neck in reminder while gesturing in Hand, _'Hurry it up!"_

 _'Working on it!'_ Hook scowled back while gesturing, ' _Would like to see **you** dismantle these collars without any damned tools…'_

Long Haul looked away and cut off the conversation. He was feeling particularly unmoved as Hook had always been pushy and ill-tempered. He tended to pick at his team mates, wearing them down if not called on his slag. It was why he was never a contender for leadership of the Constructicons. Even for all the value he brought, he was far too abrasive to team unity.

Scrapper had always kept him in line, until he was gone. The few months after they lost their leader served a keen reminder why Hook couldn’t be allowed to hold a position of power over the others. No one else desired to lead, with the exception of Bonecrusher, but he had been so shaken up over Scrapper's loss he hadn't grasped the opportunity.

And so anxious, self-conscious Long Haul had stepped up to the plate, if only to stand between Hook and the rest of the team before he tore them apart.

Oddly enough, Hook himself was much happier with the new status quo. There was something to be said for knowing were the line was, even if drawing it in the sand every damned day drove Long Haul into spasms of anxiety. His fuel tanks were a churning mess, and normally he would have gone out and broke things until he felt better.

Precious little around to break, lately…

“Prowl would have figured something out by now,” Mixmaster whispered to himself. He watched as Megatron’s lax frame disappeared from view down the corridor, the dragged body making a harsh _scree_ along the metal floor. “He’s a way better tactician then Megatron.”

Long Haul dropped a warning servo on his shoulder. “None of that outside internal comms, or we _will_ end up with problems.”

“But internal comms are down-”

“ _Mix_.”

Mixmaster winced, and then his optics unfocused.  He stood staring off into the distance, as if trying to focus on something far, far out of reach.

Long Haul watched him intently, not liking how he was acting, how his fingers curled in distress. There was a chance he was reaching out for Bonecrusher, checking on his team mate perhaps. 'Crusher had been assigned by the Quintesson to a different contingent, as if they were unaware of the Construction's ability to combine. None of the Constructicons had corrected that oversight. But although Bonecrusher's presence was distant, his functioning remained comfortable if endlessly boring, and that didn't explain Mix's discomfort.

A frown tugged at Long Haul's lip plating as Mix squirmed; and he finally recognized that look of discomfort... that echo of distant misery. He stepped forward, and laid a heavy servo on his team mate's shoulder. “Mix…” 

“Leave me alone,” Mixmaster whined back, turning away from his new leader, putting as much distance as he could between them. He’d have transformed and fled if he could. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to talk about _him._

“I know. We all know, but there’s nothing we can do right now. Close off the bond.”

“But…”

Long Haul's vocalizer dropped in clear warning. “Mix … just _do it_.”

Mixmaster obeyed with slow reluctance, and his optics shuttered as he closed off that part of his mind. It was ironic, really.  That part of Devastator always recoiled from his presence as if he was the most corrosive acid.  And yet, the instant that mental door closed, that new part of them _panicked._

The familiar feel of the gestalt bond settled over him like an old, comfortable blanket. His brothers were a familiar, accepting presence. He gulped in a few in-vents, the lack of the other like a raging helm ache lifted, sudden in its departure.  But the insistent tugging from the other side was a siren call he didn’t want to ignore, and not kliks later he had reopened his side of the gestalt bond.

Straining, thrashing madness roared back in, raging across the back of his mind and his optics dilated. The _screeeel_ of grinding denta imposed on the otherwise quiet space between the two Constructicons.

“Mix-”

“Get dented,” Mixmaster snarled back over his shoulder. Then he stuffed himself into the furthest corner, shunning his team mate-turned-leader.

Long Haul sighed.

*******

 

Sunstreaker watched from his cell as the wardens dragged an unconscious Megatron past. Hauling him past row after row of heavy-duty energy bars, his frame bounced and scraped down the corridors of the Mauler transport ship. They dumped him into a cell filled with several other Decepticons and left him there, tromping away.

Déjà vu tickled Sunstreaker’s processor as he watched Onslaught kneel over the prone mech and try to shake him awake. The biolighting along his frame barely glowed, and Megatron didn’t wake. It was obvious wherever they had kept him for the last few days, they hadn’t bothered to provide fuel.

Then Onslaught stood and asked the mechs in the next cell for something. Several of them, including one Autobot, offered him their medical ports without hesitation.

Sunstreaker rubbed at his own medical port, but he was too far away to offer. He watched as Onslaught drained a few vial’s worth of internal fluid from each of them. Returning to Megatron, Onslaught knelt back over him. He tilted the dark helm back and pressed his thumb against the intakes, parting the soft lip plating with careful fingers, and poured the fluid down the warbuild’s lax intakes.

Sunstreaker felt an uncharacteristic surge of relief when Megatron began to stir a few moments later. He didn’t like Megatron, but he did respect the mech now and was glad to see he was still alive. He couldn’t say the same for the Stunticon currently sharing his cell.

Turning, Sunstreaker snarled at the whining idiot that was his only cellmate. “I’m _not_ looking at you and _no_ I won’t turn around. Blow it out your actuator, aftstain.”

“You did look at me," Breakdown argued. He met Sunstreaker's harsh gaze and then shuddered, slapping his servos over his optics. "I saw you. You were staring at me. Is it because I remind you of your brother?”

“Shut up.” Sunstreaker was sick to death of this mech’s weird mental hang-ups.

Breakdown’s engine whined under the other Lamborghini’s comforting threats. They reminded him so much of his abrasive teammates, and stoked the fire that was his deep sense of loneliness. “Slag me. I shouldn’t have stayed in Iacon. I miss my brothers. Even the stupid ones.”

“You shut up, or I will shut you up!” Sunstreaker threatened. He took an aggressive step forward as his servos clenched into equally threatening fists. What the frag was wrong with his guy? “If you don’t stop I will give you a reason to whine.”

Breakdown sniffed from behind the protective servos still clamped over his optics. “Go ahead … that’s what _my_ brothers always do.”

“Oh frag you!” and Sunstreaker smashed into the other Lamborghini, slamming him against the far wall of the cell.

Breakdown just groaned for the hit. His spark strobed within him, a steady ache stemming from his isolation from his idiot brothers. He'd never been apart from them before, not like this, and his misery blasted across Sunstreaker’s enraged fields. Shared anguish combined in a heady mix of loneliness and grief neither mech cared much for.

Breakdown groaned and took the next hit, relishing the physical contact. It was the most he'd had since losing his brothers. But then his fighting spirit and instincts had him giving back as good as he got. An unbearable whiner he may be, but he was no pushover when it came to a rumble.

They fought hard.

Sunstreaker seemed the better fighter and landed more than a few solid hits. But Breakdown didn't back down and rumbled his unique engine, rattling Sunstreaker's chest plating in a painful distortion. The initial effect was raw, but the resulting after-vibration was pleasant. Pressing close, his denta bared and his vents gusted in harsh exhalations.

Breakdown's engine rumbled again. This time the contact was subdued, and definitely pleasant.

A shiver crept down Sunstreaker’s spinal strut and his eyes narrowed when he felt a similar response from his opponent. His servos wrapped punishingly around Breakdown's neck, clenching down. Hot gusts of breath from Breakdown swirled over his neck and chest. Sunstreaker stared down over the other Lamborgini, who held his gaze for the first time since being housed together.

Sunstreaker couldn't deny the sleek lines - so similar to his own excellent frame - were acceptably attractive. He, too, was unused to being so isolated, and found himself responding to the ache he could feel in the other's electromagnetic fields.

One thumb traced over Breakdown's neck cable.

"I hate you," Breakdown hissed as they both surrendered to basic need.

Sunstreaker rubbed his frame up against the other mechanism, Breakdown pushing back in a harsh scrape. But Sunstreaker broke the contact and scowled for the sparks. “Watch the _paint_ you stupid aft-licker.”

“Slag off,” Breakdown snapped back. “As if you even _have_ any paint left, you rusting trash heap–”

Sunstreaker hissed in absolute fury. While he was far from pristine, he had gone to great lengths to maintain his frame. His paint was actually well intact, maybe not _gleaming_ , no, but he looked far better than Breakdown!

The Stunticon had upheld his gestalt’s reputation for reckless fighting even on Quintesson battlefields. He had taken no small amount of damage during their campaigns. His scratches and scuffs were legion, and the grime in his joints was ground in deep.

“That coming from a bolt-sucking Stunticon–”

“–least I still _have_ brothers–”

Sunstreaker’s optics dilated to their widest setting - _oh it’s on now batcher-fragger! -_ and smashed them into the wall while Breakdown grappled with him and both fought hard. But there remained a heady undercurrent amidst the thrashing. Both mechs ventilated in fierce gasps and Breakdown opened his interface panels even as he smashed Sunstreaker back.

Sunstreaker pinned him again and took the other Lamborghini’s offered port a moment later. Forcing his way in, he reviled in the harsh scrape, spearing the other’s valve and grinding his spike ridges against the inner rings with abandon. Thrusting in harsh movements, he battered the other port, grinding his frame and squeezing Breakdown between his rapidly heating body and the wall in ferocious rhythm.

Breakdown’s engine rumbled in appreciation even as his vocalizer hurled back insults, and he released and re-grasped him by his hip struts, hauling the golden mech back and turning harsh thrusts into a brutal battering.

In the surrounding cells, others watched the show as the two front-liners fragged the ever loving _hell_ out of each other. Captivity had quelled propriety, and open interfacing was common enough as fragging remained a basic need. A few mechs even started to call out encouragement, though the others hushed them.

Sunstreaker pounded the other mech, his charge rapidly building, lubricant mixed with internal fluid trailing down and dripping to the floor beneath them. Keeping Breakdown trapped between his yellow frame and the wall, he battered the other Lamborghini without pause as he recklessly chased after overload.

Breakdown groaned, his port battered without mercy, and he loved every moment of it. The stretch and burn was harsh and brutal and wonderful and he snarled curse after curse at Sunstreaker as he started to peak. He shoved back against the punishing spike, scraping it against his ceiling node with a barely-stifled cry for the shock of pleasure across his sensor net.

Now if only Sunstreaker would stop _looking_ at him!

Their bodies writhed together until both found release. Sunstreaker threw back his helm as lightening raced through his body, clenched his denta to keep from making any noise.

Breakdown didn’t bother to mask his soft moans, clenching down hard as he released his charge around the hot spike throbbing within him.

Sunstreaker spilled over with a shudder, grinding deep and holding, distracted from the empty hole in his spark for a few sweet moments by pleasure. Alas the distraction of overload was far too brief.

“Stupid slagger,” Sunstreaker muttered as he pulled out, the last flickers starting to fade.

Breakdown sighed as he came down from his own high. “Frag, I needed that.”

“I said _shut up_ ,” Sunstreaker reminded him as he massaged the base of his spike, preparing to retract it. But he turned his back as previously requested.

Sunstreaker finally relaxed when Breakdown hid his face plates behind his servos again and went quiet. He didn't say a word when over the course of the cycle Breakdown crept in close and stayed there.

*******

“Lord Megatron?”

The memory-file dream shattered and Megatron jerked back online with a start.

Bleary optics brought into focus a dingy cell filled with several Cybertronians. Onslaught asking him if he was functional jolted him back to harsh reality. He welcomed the rush of information, the surge of optical and audial data as it pushed the memories of his loss away. He cleared away the past from his processor and focused on the present.

“Don’t call me that,” Megatron rumbled. “I am no _lord_ and the time for such titles has passed.”

Living as a slave under their brutal masters and suffering through true oppression had driven much of the arrogance from his metal. Humiliation and cruelty inflicted day after day, endless rotations of harsh treatment did much to deflate his bloated ego. Megatron awoke to discover he no longer had a taste for fancy titles and cowering followers.

“Yes sir,” Onslaught replied, and offered his servo. Megatron took it without hesitation and climbed back to his pedes.

Megatron steadied himself and took a moment to take stock…and was not surprised to find himself in yet another cell. This was, in a word, normal. Recently life had been nothing but cage after cage. At least this particular cell was small but clean, dark gray in color with no berth or anything other than the scuffed floor. The bars hummed with a harsh buzz, and face plates peered through the bars from the surrounding cells, his mechs watching him with hope and worry. He was surprised to recognize several worried-looking Autobots among the familiar faces.

Sunstreaker was nearby. Seeing him pleased Megatron as the mech held a reputation for fearless and excessive brutality. Across from him was a Dynobot with the designation Snarl, and beyond him was the amusing, panicky little mech named Pipes, and a few others of lesser interest.

Megatron was further pleased to see the surviving Constructicons and most of the Combaticons close by. With so many craning to see him and aching to hear his reassuring vocalizer, it wasn't difficult to slip back into command.

He turned towards the other mech in his cell, “Where are we, Onslaught?” and was glad for the Combaticon’s competent presence.

“A Mauler prison ship named _Retribution_.” Onslaught stepped closer. “Keep your vocalizer low sir. The guards are quick to use lethal measures.” He gestured at another cell where the smoking ruin of a Cybertronian frame was still sparking. The smell of burnt wiring and melted circuits tainted the already stale air around them.

Megatron eyed the still smoking frame with grim anger. “Who did we lose?”

“Don’t know his name, but he was an Autobot,” Onslaught advised him.

Megatron stared down at the pitiful, smoking wreck. He recognized the mech as the one who had piloted the drop ship… _what did the panicky little mech in my last cell call him?_

“His name was Skids, and his loss diminishes us all. His faction is of no concern to me. We are all in this together,” Megatron answered. Satisfaction pulsed through him when several mechs in cells further down stomped their pedes and called out agreement.

There were Autobots peering at him just as fervently as his Decepticons now. They were willing to follow anyone promising freedom from slavery. This was an opportunity for reunification, and Megatron no longer chose to differentiate between them.

_They are all mine now._

The Quintesson had removed all faction sigils, replacing them with their corporate logos. Megatron noted with approval that most of the mechs around him had defaced theirs. Only a few had drawn or scratched their old faction sigils back.

The line between Autobot and Decepticon had blurred for most of the survivors at this point. Most, like him, seemed to prefer the new solidarity; new bonds formed in mutual suffering. The instinctive sense of ‘us versus them’ transferred easily to their alien oppressors, resulting in a potent bond between brothers that redirected old aggression firmly at the Quintesson. They were the worst enemies imaginable, and abuses committed during the Great War seemed pale and distant in comparison to what they faced now.

One of the Autobots a few cells away did try to grumble about old wounds. Corrected with a firm “Yeah, sure _that_ was bad, but it’s nothing compared to what the piston-licking _Quints_ did when they–” the complainer fell silent.

“Mech was _useful_ ,” Thundercracker called out from a nearby cell. Filthy, he spent most days with unfocused optics, as if perpetually lost in thought. But when he resurfaced, he still held his dingy blue wings high in the proud manner of a Vosnian jet.

Right now Thundercracker’s optics glowed with burning intensity. “Skids was a quick learner, knew how to do just about everything.” His rage for the lost Autobot sounded surreal when coming from a mech responsible for killing so many over his lifetime, but there it was…hot and burning brightly.

“Something else,” Skywarp called out from the adjoining cell. “Thrust overheard the guards talking. They said the Quints have claimed Cybertron under right of salvage laws, and they are selling off the metal.”

Sharp intakes of breath and soft hisses answered that bit of news, and Skywarp didn’t have to elaborate; the situation was clear to anyone within audial range. Their world would soon be under siege, torn and gouged to pieces to fuel a demanding galactic-wide trade for high quality, living metal.

“Over my dead frame,” Megatron snarled. The mechs in the cells around him burst into subdued cheers.

“They can’t have Cybertron!” somebot called out from further away. “We won’t let them destroy it!”

Megatron heard his name whispered through the cells containing his warriors, Autobot and Decepticon alike. They were accustomed to strong leaders, and with the Prime gone, Megatron clasped all of the questing servos pressing towards him through the bars regardless of previous faction. They were all willing to fight under him now, as most of the survivors had fallen back into military form, long accustomed to such organization. So much time spent in solitary made him appreciate the mechs around him that much more. Their faith in him remained strong, and a surge of pride intermingled with grief and determination flooded him anew.

_It is good to be back among my people._

One of the servos reaching towards him belonged to Thundercracker, and he had been keeping an optic on the blue seeker. The mech spent so much time thinking, he was clearly far more of an intellectual then Megatron had recognized. It was good to see approval radiating from the jet’s optics instead of the normal reluctance.

 _Thundercracker would make a good Air Commander._ _But first things first…we must escape our new captivity._

Megatron turned back towards Onslaught. “This ship,” he said, “I don’t recognize the design. Where are we heading?”

“The Galactic Council transferred us into the custody of The Maulers after the verdict. They moved us here to the _Retribution_ and we are heading for Uytis. We are in the maximum security block, but there a bunch of alien prisoners in the other blocks...we are all headed to the same place. So far no one’s been able to get an ETA from the guards.”

“Why didn’t the Galactic Council just kill us?” Ion Storm called out from a few cells away.

It was a fair question.

Cybertronians are a class of war mech unto themselves, and uniquely dangerous. The organic races aren’t known for being intelligent (as far as Megatron was concerned anyway) but even the lowliest slime-covered meat sack had to see the sense in destroying them.

“Politics,” Swindle called out the answer. “The Quints interfered. They want us back.”

Standing next to Breakdown, Sunstreaker clenched his fists for the thought. His optics held a smoldering malice that was framed by his handsome face plates. The Quintesson were responsible for the loss of his twin. For him, the severed spark bond confirmed that Sideswipe was dead and gone. The last time Sunstreaker had seen him had been on a sun-drenched highway back on Cybertron…and he was not taking the separation well.

“That won’t happen,” Megatron swore to them. “Not while I function.”

With no further information, there wasn’t much else to do. Hook was a few cells down, trying to figure out how to remove the collars without attracting attention, no easy task.

Not long after, several Mauler guards appeared to drag Skids’ silent frame away. “I hate these things,” one of them muttered, eyeing the Cybertronians.

He was a hulking creature with two sets of wet, blinking eyes. He threatened Ion Storm and Brawl to the back of the cell, more than willing to shoot them if they offered him any trouble. But the Decepticons merely backed away and watched them mech-handle the body with baleful glares.

“Remember the first one we delivered to Uytis?” the second guard asked, kicking at the body to make sure the mech was truly dead. “The one strung up in that harness? Bastard couldn’t even _move._ Why didn’t they do that for the rest of these…things?”

“Too expensive is my guess. Better get used to it,” the first retorted while covering the second as he dragged the body from the cell. Then he reactivated the cell bars, exhaling with relief. The second guard groaned for the weight, and the first hurried to help.

“The Galactic Council’s been rounding up Cybertronians like crazy thanks to the new ruling. The higher powers agreed to ferry them, so we are going to be delivering plenty of them now.”

The Cybertronians around them stilled, and several stepped closer, clearly listening in on the conversation. Both guards immediately clammed up, eyeing each other and returning their focus to task. Working together, they dragged the body down the hall and out of sight.

Megatron spent the rest of the cycle pacing with stilted, restless movements. As the night cycle approached they all began settling down to recharge. A few joors later the ship shuddered beneath them, thrusting the anxious prisoners awake.

Megatron jolted back into consciousness ready for a fight, back onto his pedes in an instant. “What’s happening?”

Onslaught shook his helm. “Not sure. Feels like weapons fire…”

The ship shuddered again, and then the engines began to surge. Whispers echoed down the line of cells as information began trickling in from prisoners close enough to the guard stations to overhear tidbits of information.

“Quints are attacking!” Thundercracker called out frantically from his cell. “They have come for us!”

As if on cue, the collars around their necks lit up, resetting. There was a buzzing whine, and a clatter of collapsing metal as the miserable things knocked out every Cybertronian in their cells.

 

* * *

 

 _Hrrrritt…_ Bob whined again.

Soundwave was too engrossed in his task to notice. Leaning over the shuttle’s console, he painstakingly sifted through the endless chatter that comprised the galactic communications lines. He was searching for the missing Cybertronians and one ex-miner in particular.

On the current vid screen, a decorated spokesperson for the Quintesson was answering questions. They were working hard to either suppress or quell the animosity generated by brutal footage of the newest campaign against the Ejoornian homeworld.

“–pursuing resource-maximizing convergence of various productive worlds in beneficial, job-producing venues–”

There was an undercurrent of distress all across the galactic community. Many worlds were outright condemning Quintessa's aggressive expansion. In response, they were flooding the galactic channels with pro-expansionist counter propaganda.

“–evolving new corporate and private users while increasing revenue-generating opportunities for the entire galactic community, not only current Quintesson interests–”

Searching for his lost leader, Soundwave located mentions of Megatron's contingent in stolen correspondence. The Quintesson were in a growth phase, extending their holdings all across their territory. Trying to locate more information, he was currently monitoring several of their military campaigns.

Soundwave watched the recorded videos, most of them propaganda from Quintessa. He skimmed through the more balanced news coverage in smaller news hubs.

“–working hard to shore up existing assets and being proactive in delivering exponential profit increasing pre-existing networks to better facilitate long term stability in the currently troubled galactic markets–”

Under his chair, Ravage groaned and covered his audials with his paws, while Bob tilted his head. The runt took the distraction as an opportunity to move a few steps closer to Soundwave.

Bad plan. Ravage hunched down and hissed at him in warning, and Bob sat down on his aft and whined again.  _Hrrrritt… Hurrph…_

Soundwave wasn't surprised there was no mention of the invasions on the Galactic Council’s news channels. The political situation was complex as the Quintesson also ran the largest banking system in the galaxy. Their holdings were already massive and they owned half the local galaxy cluster already, purely from a financial standpoint. The galactic community had watched their aggression with apprehensive hand-wringing and no real action.

That apprehension was morphing into outright anxiety after the Quintesson annexed Cybertron. The rich and powerful worlds originally content to look the other way are now starting to get… _nervous_.

Soundwave continued to search the com lines, ferreting out the occasional tidbit of information. Something had happened to Megatron’s contingent, and the Quintesson were in an uproar over it, but with so much misdirection and misinformation it was difficult to make any headway.

Not only that, but he had just received a transcript of a recent trial of captured Cybertronian slaves, and the verdict was troubling. Even more concerning was the reports coming in that Cybertronians were already being targeted under the new ruling.

Rigel, Hedonia, Hyperon, Ghennix, and Talos III were particular hot spots for Galactic Council aggression as Cybertronians were being rounded up and transferred to various prison facilities. The distaste the alien races held for their species meant most seemed willing to look the other way as the undesirables were quietly swept away.

Soundwave had requested a copy of the trial, but so far had only been provided a basic transcript that listed the defendants by numbers rather than any names he recognized.

He sat back in his chair, and placed a servo over his abdominals where his cassettes were resting, all tucked inside him except for Ravage. The panther was a warm and purring presence wrapped around his pedes, preferring to rest outside his carrier. Also near him – but standing back in respect for the panther’s talons – was a most unhappy Bob.

Soundwave had picked up the domesticated Insecticon runt not long after the Quintesson had left Iacon a smoking ruin. Bob had managed to avoid capture, no doubt due to his unique, hardy physiology…that and his penchant for chewing first and never asking questions later. The electromagnetic wave hadn't affected him much and he had somehow avoided the capture teams (they were _delicious_ ).

From the snippets Soundwave picked up through his telepathy, Bob had been lucky.  He had broken out of his apartment home and gone searching for his owner, wandering lost while trying to locate any scent of Sunstreaker.

The Insecticon runt was well trained, and Bob quickly endeared himself to the blue spy, already proving useful as an attack dog. While Soundwave had plenty of those already, he still appreciated a good companion. He even started looking into options for converting Bob into a cassette (difficult but not impossible) much to Ravage’s dismay.

Bob was standing nearby, chewing on his own leg in anxiety. He was taking his separation from Sunstreaker very poorly and decided the only appropriate place to mourn was on Soundwave’s lap.

Soundwave was growing more and more accepting of the notion. Ravage, however, was certain that not only was this unacceptable, it was downright inappropriate.

 _Scandalous,_ even.

Everyone knew Soundwave’s lap belonged to the panther. Full stop.

End of story.

Not that he was currently in said lap, as Ravage was too good to sit in anyone’s lap. He was a _panther,_ after all. But that changed nothing. Soundwave’s lap belonged to him, and he may, someday, deign to sit there.

They have had a lot of arguments regarding this querulous issue, to the point where Bob had finally gotten it through his thick skull that Ravage was _not one with whom to frag_. Thus he stood back while the panther defended Soundwave’s lap from his position at the spy’s feet.

Bob was of the opinion that this was entirely unfair; laps were wonderful things, and should be shared freely. Ravage invited him to make something of it by dragging his claws and making that soft little sound cats make right before the teeth come out.

_Hrrrritt… Hurrph…_

Soundwave rumbled when he finally found an intriguing entry, along with a recording of a group of battered Autobots making an escape from a breeding colony now listed as defunct.

He managed to break into the database’s security and collect the contact information for that particular escape pod. The Quintesson were also searching for the pod, but they hadn’t made much progress.

Fortunately, Soundwave was far more effective. The Decepticons had several long range data probes in that general area, part of an ancient surveillance network commissioned during their empire building stage. The old probes were still functional and he commandeered one for use in that sector.

Soundwave keyed in the communication request and started to ping the escape pod as Ravage growled, as Bob was creeping just a little closer.

“Bob… sit.” Soundwave said. Bob cocked his helm, and then his bum hit the floor with an obedient _click,_ antenna twitching excitedly for the attention.

“Good boy,” Soundwave rumbled, reaching out to pet the runt. The bug’s entire lower body began wiggling in sheer delight.

His communication request pinged again and again without answer, and he left it on a repeating cycle, just in case.

_Hrrrritt…_

At his pedes, Ravage growled.

 

* * *

 

_Your tyranny ends here, Megatron!  Prime charged at him, fists swinging … he missed, his helm falling back and blue optics flashed bright._

_'How are you holding up?'_

_Prime swung again, freedom is the right of all sentient beings!_

_'May I touch you?'_

_The punch connected, the feel of his jaw shattering more memory-file then dream–_

–Megatron jolted back online, blinked, and then sat up with a groan.

His spike was trying to pressurize, pressing insistently against his closed intimate panel. His spark throbbed for the dream-mech and his frame was primed and ready to provide long overdue service. He rubbed at his face plates and forced his systems to cycle down … though the low, simmering charge remained.

He instinctively tried to check his internal chronometer before remembering it was still locked out. He could tell it was joors later though, and soft groans began drifting down the cell blocks. Sounds of creaking joints and the ever-present grumbling began as the other mechs in the cells around him came back online.

_We are still aboard the Mauler ship._

He could tell the attack was over as the ship’s engines thrummed in normal rhythms again. Recognizing the featureless cells and crackling energy bars, the realization was an odd comfort, and it felt wrong to feel so relieved. At least this captivity was far better then what the Quints offered.

“The Quints must have failed to overwhelm the _Retribution._ ” Onslaught said as he wiped a trickle of oral lubricant from the corner of his intakes. Then, with a grunt, he climbed to his pedes. He leaned against the cell wall for support, still off-balance.

From his cell nearby, Brawl called out to them while slapping at his helm to clear the static. “I don’t get it. Why did the Maulers even bother to fight ‘em off? They fraggin' hate us! The Quints were keeping us locked down, so why aren’t we back with ‘em?”

“Maulers are mech-phobes,” Onslaught explained. “They hate the Quints just as much as they hate us. Fraggers are tough enough to drive them away.”

“But the Quints are techno-organic!”

Onslaught snorted. “Not organic _enough_.”

“Well, according to him,” – Thundercracker flicked a shaky wing at a frame behind him – “the Galactic Council _are_ killing us, just in a round-about way.”

Megatron coughed to clear his intakes and tested his pedes to make sure he was steady enough. Then he stepped around, spotting the mech Thundercracker had pointed out in the next cell... or _mechs_ , which was far more likely. The green and yellow frame looked Cybertronian at first glance, but Megatron knew an Ammonite when he saw one. This one was small, but not small enough. No doubt several of them combined into one frame, a form of Stentarian gestalt.

_This is exactly why I agreed to the Tyrest Accord. Alien thieves stealing our technology!_

“What do you know of our destination, friend?” Megatron rumbled at the smaller alien in the nearby cell. The last word was emphasized in a slightly threatening tone. He no longer desired fancy titles and cowering followers, but his xenophobic hatred for the lesser races grew only stronger.

_I wonder if Prime still mumbles his cute little catchphrase now that he has endured a taste of alien compassion?_

Even as it crossed his processor, his spark lurched at the thought of Optimus. Spark throbbing, he had to work hard to ignore his guardian protocols, the newly awakened part of him that longed for his counterpart. Shoving the past away, Megatron forced himself to focus on the present as the Ammonite faced him without backing down a micron. _At least this one has a spinal strut…_ it raised his opinion of the alien a few points, but it remained a very low bar.

“Hell,” the Ammonite answered after a moment. “We are being thrust into the gaping maw of the Afterspark.”

“Perhaps you could be more _specific_ ,” Onslaught snapped.

The Ammonite frowned, but obliged. The picture his blunt words paint was far from reassuring. Located in the galactic rim, Uytis was a small planetoid in close orbit around the smoldering corpse of an ancient star. The surface broiled during the day while facing the looming white dwarf, and the short nights remain far too hot.

The penitentiary itself was little more than a glorified hole in the ground, cut deep into the rocky layer. The conditions were harsh enough to control the movements of even the most troublesome of mechanisms.

Only the stoutest of the metal races could survive there. The prison used to have a functional ship dock and wardens, but they were long gone; the colony had fallen into anarchy. New prisoners were teleported to the surface and left to their own devices–

“Wait, wait! Stick it in reverse for a second,” Thundercracker interrupted the depressing ramble. “No controllers? No wardens? The ships won’t dock and the Maulers just dump you there? What kind of prison _is_ this?”

“One you never leave.” The Ammonite started laughing, the sound shot through with fear. “Don’t you comprehend, Cybertronian? We _are_ the supplies.”

Onslaught shot a concerned glance at Megatron, and the both of them shared a frown. Then Megatron stepped away, turning his back on the Ammonites. He moved towards the front of the cell, servo folded across his mouth plating as he worked over the situation in his mind.

“Hey Onslaught–”

The Combaticon leader watched as Megatron began to pace, and then pulled up his stratagems to do some thinking of his own. He quelled the urge to join Megatron in his pacing, as there wasn’t enough room for it. “…what, Brawl?”

“You think they built the walls to code?”

“Do I think they … wait, _what_?”

“The _walls_ , Onslaught. Prison walls are never built to scale.”

“....”

“Get it, Onslaught?!”

Megatron coughed into his fist, Thundercracker’s optics unfocused in a hurry, and moments later Onslaught nearly cracked his blast mask with the force of his face palm.


	8. Serendipity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Megatron finds himself on the wrong side of hell’s gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** This story can get very dark, and please be aware of that. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :) 
> 
> (Note: I am taking liberties with writing the Autobot's internal dialogue so that the story remains coherent and doesn’t get too bogged down in description, if interested I added more details on that at the end.)

Optimus Prime awoke with a start.

His optics flew open, the blue light flooding from them the only source of illumination in the otherwise dark compartment. Rotating his exposed lenses, his delicate optical components quickly scanned the tiny room, their faint light revealing multiple sleeping bodies all around him. He heard the engines of the tiny escape pod humming in a steady rhythm, but that was not what roused him. Then he startled when someone recharging nearby gave another fearful cry.

Lost in a nightmare, Perceptor's fingers curled and his abused engine strained. His pede lashed out in response to some frightening dream-vision, and he accidentally bumped Ratchet in his sleep.

The old medic jerked at the whack to his unprotected proto-mesh. A heavy frown crept across his unconscious (and yet somehow still grumpy) face plates.

Optimus’ face - now fully visible as he had been divested of his battle mask - relaxed as it was clear they weren’t under attack. Unable to speak, he instead reached out with a bare servo and laid his palm across Perceptor’s shoulder. A faint smile touched his lip plating as the other mech immediately calmed in his sleep.

Then Optimus blinked, finally noticing the new sleeping arrangements. _They must have moved while I was recharging._ He was now surrounded ... engulfed ... by sleepy Autobots. His mechs were nestled all around him in a haphazard pile of naked, exhausted machinery. There were other places to sleep in the escape pod’s main chamber, but during the night anyone functional enough had left the separate sleeping arrangements, huddling around him. He knew why they were encroaching upon him, and accepted the crowding … _if it helps them recharge, then I don’t mind._

Optimus gently stretched his sore back strut, rolling into a more comfortable position on his side with caution. He felt them adjust to his new position; Bumblebee nuzzled closer into the small of his back strut while the others struggled to be nearer to him. He pulled Ratchet back against his front, the smaller mech still encircled in his arms.

Wheeljack re-adjusted to cuddle against his warm back plates, squeezing Bumblebee between them. His light vents ghosted against Optimus' bare, sensitive metal.

Sideswipe’s back pressed against his legs after a moment, his engine grumbling soft threats in his recharge ... _quit moving. Trying to sleep!_

Jazz and Prowl were further away. Like Ratchet, Prowl was also perpetually unconscious, the surgery more damaging to his unique processor. Jazz was wrapped around the tactician with a protective grip … or he had been, anyway. Sometime in the night Prowl had struggled away. Locked in lucid dreams, the tactician rejected all touch.

The Autobots shouldn’t be able to fit together like this, but without plating they were far smaller and more flexible. All that remained of their plating was their face plates and most of their helms, except for Sideswipe, who was missing even that.

Bereft of plates, Optimus lacked weight and heft, with much of his balance off for his belly. His thick cables and inner circuitry were visible, with only a thin metal mesh covering everything, keeping his internals where they should be.

Originally, Optimus had only taken Ratchet to berth with him, as the medic was locked in a near vegetative state. But Ratchet was an _angry_ vegetable, thrashing at times in his unending recharge. Optimus had volunteered to watch over him at night, as overlapping his powerful field with Ratchet’s weaker one was the only way to keep the old medic calm.

Early in his life, Optimus had discovered they could be overwhelming to others. Now careful to keep them tucked close and contained, he'd worked hard to learn how to control what reflected out across them. It was a skill perfected over the long eons. He always possessed a deep sense of peace, an ocean of serenity beneath the upper layers of his more turbulent mind. Over time, he learned to tap into and project that calm around him to good effect.

Optimus’ fields had extended in his recharge, instinctively covering his fearful Autobots. He was in desperate need of rest. Unfortunately, thanks to Perceptor, he was awake and now his engine refused to cycle down. Glancing around, his optics caught on the tiny, frosted view port of the small escape pod. The star field he can see outside was unfamiliar.

 _We must be far from Cybertron’s galactic neighborhood._ Craning his neck to peer at the twinkling stars, he winced when he jostled his collar.

_Wretched devices…_

Reaching up, he felt along the device around his neck, the shackles still fused to his proto-form. They annoyed him greatly. He dropped his servo, knowing better than to tug too hard on the device still interconnected to his systems.

The bindings were irritating, but far worse were the connective devices attached to their gestation tanks. Wired through an apparatus lodged within their valves, the support connectors were so invasive that removal wouldn't be an easy matter. Full and miserable down below, all attempts to evict the device sent hot pain through his systems. All of the devices would remain until Ratchet was capable of surgically removing them.

Currently Ratchet wasn’t functional in any way.

Checking over his oldest friend, Optimus' touch remained slow and careful. Ratchet’s soft vents sounded so unhappy, and there was a good chance much of his misery was due to the shackles around his limbs and the obscene apparatus still filling his valve.

But Optimus’ warm presence was a promise of safety; a reassurance that registered in the deepest parts of the dreaming mech’s subconscious. Comfort flickered across Ratchet's field as Optimus tucked him close. Re-wrapping his arms around Ratchet, Optimus murmured reassurances and Ratchet calmed even further in his protective embrace.

_We are safe now, all of us._

Optimus forced himself to relax and pushed away the distressing memory-files attempting to replay behind his optics. He finally slid back into recharge, but the past did not see fit to leave him in peace.

…

 

_A blast of sound roused him from his stupor, and Optimus peered blearily through the fluid around his prone, restrained frame._

_Enclosed into a fluid-filled support capsule, the sloshing of liquid and the slurping of tubes now filled his waking existence between long periods of unconsciousness._

_His owners still considered him too dangerous for freedom of movement as he wasn't trainable. Now finally understanding the Allicon's warning, he'd come to welcome the dark as the only escape from the monotonous horror of captivity._

_But a shudder from the ground below further roused him, and he blinked as the lights above began to flicker. Fluid paused on its way to his frame and then restarted; the support necessary to aid the development of the next generation of slaves. One such unfortunate was already in construction within his gestation tank._

_Below the deck and through the ventilation systems, Optimus could make out the distant roar of voices._

_The Quintesson were very pleased with their new Cybertronian acquisitions, and success rates had increased to the point that the lesser troops weren't needed in previous quantities. Re-calculating the value of the green skinned species they've always used as front-liners, the Grand Auditors had demanded a reduction; careful calculations confirmed a cull was necessary. Maintaining the Imperial Balance Sheets was paramount after all and profit margins demand sacrifice._

_True to their nature, they chose to make a spectacle of the downsizing. Holding a mass trial, they decided to broadcast the cull across Quintessa for the enjoyment of the Masters._

_Multiple breeding facilities (including the one supporting the gestating Cybertronians) linked together digitally via mass judicial stages, all containing high resolution recording devices. The trial was broadcast live to gaudy vid displays all across Quintessa._

_“We pronounce you innocent,” the Judges decreed, “and your punishment is death.”_

_Also true to nature, they are needlessly cruel about it. The Allicon prepared to follow through with the downsizing by gathering the redundant organics together. They began separating them into groups of male, female, and young, intending to destroy them in mass orgies of sharkticon-satiating violence._

_The Allicon expected resistance, but their faith in their control devices was absolute and the prospect of enjoying such a mass spectacle overrode all other concerns. They did not expect the organic soldiers to begin ripping the optical control devices from their sockets. They did not expect the parents to grow so hysterical as to be heedless of pain as they turned on their masters._

_The Allicons struggled to restore order as the Judges waved frantic tentacles and screeched vile, pointless threats._

_Then the lights guttered out._

_Optimus didn’t know who cut the power, but the instant his bindings released he took the opportunity provided with vehemence. Thrashing, he broke free and dragged himself from his support pod. Various support cables attached him to the tube, and he began tearing into them, even damaging his own ports in a desperate bid to escape._

_Unable to remove the vile apparatus lodged in his valve and attached to his gestation tank, he severed the tubing instead. Heedless of the splattering streams of liquid and the drag of cables, he left a trail of various fluids in his wake as he fled the support room._

_Emergency lights flashed and warnings he couldn't understand blared over the internal sound systems. He ignored them as he searched for the other Autobots._

_An Allicon spied him and shouted something, the command unrecognizable._

_Optimus charged him full throttle before he could reach for his control panel, slamming the handler into the wall and battering him brutally with his fists. His servos were bare, but he knew how to throw a damned good punch regardless. Within moments his bare mesh was splattered with the Allicon’s internal fluids … satisfyingly so for all he had suffered._

_Fortunately the other guards were already engaged with the green species in a furious mêlée. No one else even looked at him as he stumbled down the main corridors. Sounds of battle roared through the floor vents as the defunct soldiers fought to save their young._

_Optimus stumbled over Sideswipe while fleeing down a narrow hallway. The poor mech was completely unrecognizable, missing even his face plating; only his soft under-mesh remained. Sideswipe shouldn't have been functional, but there he was, struggling towards the escape pods while dragging an unconscious Ratchet behind him ... refusing to leave the other Autobot behind._

_Optimus stole a moment to clap a proud servo on Sideswipe’s shoulder. Then he relieved Sideswipe of his too-heavy burden, hoisting the unconscious medic over his own thin shoulder._

_The breeding colony’s reactor core was failing, and the automated warnings sounded more and more urgent.  Optimus hauled Sideswipe and Ratchet towards an escape hatch, pausing only when he heard Perceptor’s frantic cries from down a side corridor. Freeing Perceptor, he followed a hunch and broke into the only other pod in the room to find a squirming Wheeljack trapped inside._

_Around them, sirens began blaring final warnings._

_Even the Allicons had given up trying to control the revolting slaves. They began fleeing to their ships, running after their masters. Instinct would have Optimus try to help the screaming organics around him, but he was too weak and damaged to be useful, and could only focus on saving his Autobots._

_An explosion from deep below shook the upper facility._

_Thrown to the ground for the violence, it was clear to Optimus that the facility was heaving in its death throes. He staggered back to his pedes and pulled the others along. He felt a flash of relief when Jazz, carrying an unconscious Prowl and dragging Bumblebee by a leg, came staggering around the corner._

_The little_ – _now tiny!_ – _yellow mech joined Ratchet across Optimus' other shoulder, his leg struts trembling for the extra weight even as he forced himself onward._

_Optimus helped them hijack a small escape pod as the facility burned around them. Herding them towards the tiny escape vessel, he dropped everyone to the ground to help Jazz over the lip and into the little ship. Then he hefted the unconscious Autobots one by one into the tiny craft, handing them off to the saboteur._

_Sideswipe was next, the determined twin already trying to clamber inside but nearing the end of his strength. He squirmed in protest when Optimus lifted him around his middle_ – _don't need any help!_ – _and plopped him inside. Only when everyone was aboard did he step inside._

_Optimus keyed the escape pod's hatch closed, and then collapsed in relief when Jazz launched them to safety a few kliks later._

_Peering through the porthole as they escaped, Sideswipe watched with a soft gasp of pleasure as the asteroid outpost collapsed in on itself, incinerated by its failing power generators._

…

Optimus lurched back to wakefulness.

With a huff and a tired rub along all that remained of his plating – his face plate – he gave up on recharging. Instead he slowly climbed to his pedes, mindful of his recharging Autobots. He stepped away, hesitating only when he heard a soft grumble behind him. Turning back, he reached out and gave Ratchet’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

_Settle down old friend. I will be back soon._

Setting his bare pedes down with careful steps, he padded down the tiny adjoining corridor to the cockpit, intending to check on the autopilot. Hesitating, he looked over the steady glow of the indicators. Some of them were blinking. Nothing looked too worrying, but he couldn’t really understand what he was seeing anymore. He leaned forward and then fell back with a wince when he bumped his abdominals against the edge of the control panel. He still wasn't used to the bump yet.

His fingers brushed over it and he winced again. Returning his attention to struggling with the controls, he pecked at them hesitantly. They look alien to him now. Only his millions of years of experience with starships guided his fingers, and he fell back on instinct to help him guide the little pod.

Squinting at the controls, he rubbed at his damaged optics as they refused to focus properly. Finally he gave up trying to look at the tiny markings; he couldn’t even read them anyway. Extending his prehensile wrist cables instead, he felt around until he located the hard port. Hard-lining into the ship, he winced when alien symbols flashed across his barely-functional HUD.

Still completely incomprehensible.

Standard Galactic should be second nature to him. But thanks to the Quintesson's cruelty, the symbols and glyphs were now complete gibberish. He struggled with the controls. Every moment spent fighting them made him grow more frustrated with his damaged processor. He finally managed to adjust course towards Hyperon, a small world on the outer reaches. They needed to secure some supplies for the journey back to Cybertron.

_We are too weak to deal with any trouble, but we are getting low on energy and this pod is meant to be short range only. We will never reach Cybertron without enough fuel._

Then he paused while eyeing what appeared to be the communications system. It was blinking and the indicator seemed urgent. Hesitating, his servos hovered over the controls. Opening a communication line seemed pointless when he couldn't speak.

_What if the Quintesson are on the other end, trying to locate us?_

But someone was trying to contact them without pause. Each time he checked the cockpit, that little light had been blinking. The person on the other end was nothing if not persistent. He was loath to answer as he couldn’t speak or understand anything said to him anymore.

But that little blinking light. It looked so … insistent _._

Curiosity kept him staring at the fussy indicator until he finally decided to go for it. His fingers hovered for a moment longer and he swallowed nervously. Then he tapped at what he guessed was the correct control. Suddenly tense, he drew back when Soundwave’s distinctive face plates winked into existence on the small holographic comm panel.

Soundwave’s visor flashed, and his deep monotone rumbled from the speakers. It was a rich-sounding collection of completely familiar and yet incomprehensible glyphs, arranged in beautiful and alien whirls filled with indecipherable meaning.

Optimus stared at the other mech, opening and closing his intakes in useless frustration. He was unable to process what Soundwave was saying to him. He understood the concept of language, but couldn’t apply it ... _so very frustrating_... and his fingers reached up and he scratched at his helm as if trying to reach an itch deep inside his own mind.

Soundwave watched him with curious optics, and tried again.

…

 

“Optimus Prime,” Soundwave greeted the Autobot leader. “I am pleased to see you have escaped captivity.”

And that was the truth. Soundwave was certain now that he was much closer to locating Megatron. He waited for a reply, but again Prime didn’t return his greeting.

Unwilling to allow old animosities to hinder him, Soundwave promptly fell into his new norm of being as helpful as possible to his fellow Cybertronians. He was certain that the normally level-helmed Prime would return his gesture of good will.

“I am tracking your location and there is a nearby safe harbor, located grid 4,565, sub-grid 5,467. The port on Tibrus Major is friendly to escaping Cybertronian captives: they have set up a refugee camp offering fuel and medical assistance.”

Soundwave hesitated again when Prime still didn’t answer. Only his face plate was visible on screen, but Prime's expression looked distinctly unhappy _._ As a recently escaped slave, Prime should be a wealth of information. All of which was badly needed right now, and so Soundwave tried again.

“I am attempting to locate Lord Megatron as the situation on Cybertron grows dire. Perhaps you will aid me in return?”

Still no response and he could see Prime’s optics remained unfocused.

_Strange._

“The Quintesson are removing the remnants of our planet’s core. Large scale dismantling and metal collection processes have begun. They are _tearing_ our world _apart_. I humbly request any information you have on Lord Megatron’s whereabouts _–_ ”

Soundwave struggled to keep desperation from creeping into his tone as he tried to coax any news of Megatron from Prime.

On his screen, Prime finally moved. But instead of answering, he closed his optics for a long moment. Then he opened them and swallowed. He worked his intakes as he tried to answer, but when he opened his mouth, only soft choking sounds escaped. It was as if he was unable to form words of any kind. 

Staring at the distressed, struggling mech, Soundwave realized something was dreadfully wrong.

“Something is … _wrong_ , isn’t it? What can I do to help you?”

…

 

Soundwave’s visor flashed again as he leaned forward and rumbled more concerned-sounding gibberish.

 _Nothing I can do,_ Optimus realized with trepidation. He couldn't understand the other mech, and no amount of gibberish was going to change that. With an apologetic look, he shut down the communications console, severing Soundwave’s attempt to communicate with him. He saw dismay flash across the spy's visor an instant before the screen went dark, and he stared forlornly at the empty vid screen.

It went against his spark to seem so callous.

Mere kliks later the comm light began blinking again. Optimus’ shoulders slumped, but he stepped back. With one last look at the comm panel, he sighed and began to totter towards the rear of the ship, back to his resting Autobots.

As he shuffled down the short corridor, he passed the small medical alcove and something caught his optic. He stopped and stepped closer, hesitating _. The medical berth-alcove could convert into a tub._

He was filthy, utterly filthy and he longed for the sheer luxury of being clean. He could still smell the stench of fuel-paste and his own waste splattered from the tubes he’d torn from his body. The mess was dry now and flaking off, but still he hesitated. Using the desperately limited medical equipment for his benefit when the others remained soiled seemed wrong somehow. But the lure of being clean was too strong.

Optimus flicked a glance over his shoulder and offered a compromise for his conscience. _I will tend you myself in the morning,_ he promised the others. Then he reached out and started fiddling with the equipment. After a bit of trial and error, the alcove shifted and began filling with a clear sanitizing fluid. More fiddling and the fluid started to steam with inviting heat.

Clouds of warmth floated up and began to lick at his soft metal, teasing him. A shiver of eagerness crept up his back strut as the tub filled. Little latches that would have joined his armor plating to his protoform lifted, and if he still had his armor, his plating would have flared in anticipation. His delight was complete when the tub finally filled to the brim.

Staring at the lovely sight, he lifted one pede and then the next and slid into the hot fluid, shaking for the sheer joy of it.  Captivity hadn’t been so long considering the length of their lives, but the last year had been the most horrifying period of his functioning.

The bubbling fluid comforted him and he relaxed. His oversized abdominals floated in the hot fluid, and he leaned back and sank as far as he could into the makeshift tub until only his optics, the tip of his pedes, and the uppermost round of his belly remained visible. He stared at the curve and sighed, bubbles of air escaping his submerged intakes.

He felt a twinge of anxiety, but he knew it was only from the carrier-coding, and tried to disregard it. He had only recently stopped dreaming of Megatron, the coding finally ceasing its roundabout way of encouraging him to stay safe by remaining near what should have been a protector. Megatron was gone … _I can protect myself thank you_ … though Optimus held no resentment toward him for his current state; they had both been utterly violated.

_Where are you now, enemy mine? I hope you are well tonight._

Optimus worried for him, Soundwave’s concerned face flashing across his processor and the hints of desperation in the unique vocalizer. _Who knows what is happening to the rest of the captives. I will see them rescued…and rescue Megatron as soon as I am able._

There was a surge of warmth through his spark, stoking a low, simmering fire below as he tried to imagine what he would say to his counterpart after rescuing him. He imagined blasting a hole into the room where Megatron was chained down, piles of defeated Allicons in his wake, and saying… but his missing words derailed that happy daydream right quick.

Warmth from the tub penetrated into his deepest places, and he couldn’t hold on to his worries for very long in the face of such comfort. His words may be lost, but imagery remained, and a small smile played across his face plates at the irritated look he knew Megatron would give him in response to being rescued by _the Prime_ of all mechs.

A faint smile pulled at the corner of his intakes as he drifted in and out of a happy doze. Daydreams and half-remembered memory-files danced in flickers behind his optics as he enjoyed his steaming bath to the fullest extent possible.

 

* * *

 

Thundercracker leaned against the wall of his cell, his optics unfocused as usual.

His dirty blue wings flicked in occasional twitches, and Skywarp fidgeted in the adjoining cell. Occasionally Skywarp would break their companionable silence and chatter at him, standing as close to his trine mate as physically possible, even though they were separated by thrumming energy-bars.

Around them, the cells bustled and rustled with pent up mechs, everyone bored but unable to relieve the tension for fear of upsetting the guards and their itchy trigger fingers.

The boring cycle rolled over into the evening and along with it came their weak fuel ration. Accustomed to Quintesson fuel-paste, the Mauler’s weak energon was the sweetest ambrosia. Enjoying every drop while Skywarp blathered endless, comforting nonsense in his audials, Thundercracker was surprised when Megatron called for him and Onslaught.

In a terse conversation whispered through cell bars, Megatron promoted Onslaught to acting second in command of the Decepticons while Soundwave was missing. Thundercracker was now Air Commander, due to the loss of Starscream.

Not long after, the night cycle on the prison ship began, and the lights cycled down. The towering, dour-faced guards preformed their last check, stilled their trigger fingers in disappointment for the tense quiet and left.

Cybertronians began settling down for recharge, though sleeping was difficult for all the rustling and interfacing and grumbling.

Skywarp and Thundercracker nestled down next to each other as best they could. Separated, they were still happy to be close enough to touch. Propping back plates against the shared cell wall, they arranged themselves so that the panels of their wings overlapped, pressed flush against the wall with only the flickering energy bars keeping them apart.

Well after midnight, Skywarp finally opened his optics and looked over at Thundercracker, unable to tune out the noisy interfacing in the next cell over. Snarl had finally convinced Pipes that massive size differences just meant there was more Dynobot to love and the much smaller mech had agreed to give him a whirl… and now they were going on round three.

Skywarp groaned.

For _Primus sake_ have mercy, he hadn’t had any for _deca-cycles_ and seekers were trying to get some recharge! Unfortunately for him the only other mechs in his cell were _grounders_ and he did have standards.

Low standards for a Vosnian jet, perhaps … but a pair of wings was a must, full stop.

Desperate, he would take pseudo-wings, door-wings, winglets, whatever those silly little things on the back of Track’s alt-mode were... but none of _those_ grounders were in his cell. He was stuck with Hook and Scavenger, and he couldn’t be seen clanging _them_.

Especially not Hook; he’d been verbally lashing them non-stop since waking. The surgeon was having difficulty working out a way to remove the collars for lack of resources, and was gleefully taking out his frustrations on the poor fraggers trapped with him.

Fortunately Skywarp was really good at tuning out self-important glitches and their snarking due to eons of practice.

Scavenger … less so.

Hook’s cold, eloquent tones lashed over him. “It was merely an observation; if Long Haul or Mixmaster were in my cell at least I would have some decent tools to work with, instead of whatever _you_ are packing. It’s hardly _my_ fault you are too sensitive.”

Scavenger flinched. Fighting back was pointless, Hook had a sharp wit and an even sharper glossa and defending himself would only encourage him to keep stabbing. Scavenger just buried his helm into his lap while in the distance Long Haul made threatening gestures at Hook.

 _Mechs need to get clanged bad,_ Skywarp thought, and looked over at Thundercracker with longing. _Primus_ , he knew the feeling.

Skywarp’s complaining had been so mighty that Thundercracker had even tried to suck him off through the bars, just for some peace and quiet. Unfortunately he'd jolted when TC had licked over his sweet spot _just so_ , gloriously over-stimulating the tightly packed cluster of sensors under his spikehead and he ended up knocking the blue seeker into the bars by accident. Glossa met cracking energy bar with a shriek, and after that he couldn’t get Thundercracker to try again, no matter his promises, pleading, and droopy-winged begging.

“TC?” Skywarp whispered. “Are you recharging?”

No response, which usually meant yes.

_Hmm._

Skywarp tried again, only louder this time, just to make sure he really was in recharge. Still no answer. Then he prodded at the other seeker, just to be absolutely, _one hundred percent_ sure he wasn’t awake.

“Frag me,” Thundercracker gasped, jolting awake. “What is it, ‘Warp?”

Skywarp grinned at him and switched to wing speak, which was something of a feat, as he could only move his wings microns in any direction for the energy bars still buzzing between them.

 _'Hey...since you are awake now, I want to ask you something…'_ Skywarp’s wing rubbed sensuously along his trine mate’s blue wing as he stirred them to communicate. Once again he internally cursed the bars that kept them separate. _'Who are we inviting to our trine to replace … you know?'_

_'Is that all? Not sure yet, and it’s not important. There’s no hurry. Now get some recharge before I have you thrown in the brig for insubordination.'_

_'We are already in a cage, dumb-aft! So I have been thinking, and listen to this–'_

 

…

Thundercracker groaned to himself.

Skywarp and thinking didn’t belong together, like oil and water, fire and ice, or Tantrum and china shops... _I should write that one down._ _Bulls! China shops! Stupendous! Polish that up a little, that’s some damned fine humor there!_

_I could totally work that into my story somehow._

_Hmm._

Thundercracker’s optics grew unfocused, as they often did when he was thinking about writing, completely tuning out Skywarp’s excited wing-prattle.

Now that he was a writer, he spent a lot of time just…thinking, and he had a new appreciation for random thoughts. He’d finished creating a small, basic writing program for his pathetic mess of an internal HUD and he’d been putting it to good use.

He was working on a new piece now, an epic tale of a seeker imprisoned by alien tentacle monsters. Losing his two best friends, the hero protagonist and his trusty sidekick, Skylander Warptastic, had just escaped to wreak havoc upon their tormentors. So far he was making massive amounts of progress, installment after installment of titillating revenge scenarios ... captivity did allow for a lot of time to think.

'– _spike sucking contest!'_

Skywarp finished unveiling his brilliant plan with an aileron flare for emphasis. His optics gleamed in the darkness, filled with excitement...glee, even.

Thundercracker blinked, intakes dropping open, unsure if he had read the other seeker’s wing movements correctly.

_'…Wait, what?'_

In the cell beside them, Pipes moaned as another thick finger joined the three already inside his valve, the squelching noises gloriously obscene to Skywarp’s audials.

Snarl took the opportunity to try and brush his spike suggestively against Pipe’s lips. He missed, thwacking Pipes between the optics with his massive connector instead. Failing in his attempt to be subtle, the Dynobot then went with insistent, pressing his spike against his new frag buddy’s startled intakes, and Pipe’s optics crossed while trying to focus on the business end of the _gigantic_ spike pushing past his lip plating.

Skywarp nodded in approval, flicking his wing at the pushy Dynobot. _'See? He’s got the right idea!'_ His wing accidentally clanked against the cell wall, surprising the mechs in the cells around them and Snarl squeaked when denta nipped his spike for the startle.

Thundercracker just stared at his trine mate.

Skywarp stared back and then guffawed, wings flicking in amusement. _'You think I'm joking! We just get everybody who's interested and have a contest, and whoever’s the best gets to join the team! It’ll be awesome!'_

 _'First of all,'_ Thundercracker flicked back, _'I **know** you're not joking. Secondly, no we are not… that is not happening.' _ He was entirely uninterested even when Skywarp started in with his patented droopy-winged begging.

_'Aw, come on TC, just give it a chance!'_

Thundercracker just shook his helm in disbelief and glared suspiciously at his trine mate. _'Did you give Starscream suggestions like these, or are you just fragging with me?'_

“Slag yeah,” Skywarp said, switching back to common and breaking the silence. Wing-speak was an elegant language, but not so good for colorful explanatives. “Until he started punching me every time I–”

“Ah,” Thundercracker said. _Come to think of it, Starscream used to punch the purple wonder pretty damned often._

Thundercracker nodded to himself. Then he made a fist and carefully punched his trine mate through the bars, a light and playful hit, trying to get the point across to his best buddy with a minimum of fuss.

Skywarp yelped. “Hey!”

_'No contests of any kind. Just forget about it and get some recharge.'_

_'I thought you would be more fun than this,'_ Skywarp whined at him. _'Who doesn’t like a good spike sucking contest, seriously?'_

Thundercracker just ignored his exasperating trine mate, unwilling to entertain the notion any further. Drifting off to recharge, he managed a few good joors when rustling woke him out of a particularly good dream.

Buster had been the antagonist, the dark hero of a vast galactic empire, black cape swirling around her in ominous whorls. She had just been about to tell the protagonist _no Starscream,_ ** _I_** _am your father_ when his processor rebooted, propelling him back to reality.

His optics hadn’t even on-lined yet for how fast he’d whipped open his simple writing program. Inspiration struck as his optics winked on and immediately unfocused as he began writing down his dream.

_It’s brilliant! I can work it in somewhere..._

Wet noises immediately caught his attention and he focused and looked over at Skywarp while jotting down his totally original idea. Then his wings flared in wild irritation.

Skywarp was leaning forward and Thrust was sucking the ever loving slag out of his spike, the very best he could manage through the cell bars. He was sucking spike as if he was getting _cybertonium_ out of it. It was hard going, but he was still doing a damned fine job of it. The purple menace grinned and pointed at him, giving Thundercracker two thumbs way up.

“What did I say about this?” Thundercracker hissed.

Skywarp leaned his helm back, the lift and drop of his dark wings his only answer as he savored the warm intakes lathing his spike with oral fluid. _Click._

Thundercracker scowled. _Click,_ ** _click_** _!_

_Click! Click! Click!_

Thundercracker realized the utter futility of trying to argue with Skywarp in this manner and dropped his helm into his servos, groaning. Only hours into his promotion and he was already having trouble with the transition.

Skywarp clearly expected special treatment, but he couldn’t allow it, and 'Warp was already pushing the boundaries.

Then he heard a _bzzt_ and Thrust’s shrill screech.

Even worse was when Megatron caught his optic early in the morning cycle and made a motion for _we need to talk_. There was a disappointed frown across Glorious Leader’s face plates and a smirk on Onslaught’s (seriously, how did he manage that with a blast mask?) and he didn’t have to wonder why.

_Damn it ‘Warp…_

 

* * *

 

Optimus was still drifting in a pleasant mental fog when he heard rustling.

His optics flew open, taking in the slim form of Jazz. The lanky, stripped mech shuffled the few steps toward him, his bare pedes clicking and tapping the metal ground as he approached. The noisy stride was intentional, Optimus knew, so as not to startle him. Normally the saboteur moved without a sound.

 _It’s been over a joor,_ he realized, though time didn’t really matter as there was little to do on this tiny ship other than sleep anyway. But he’d been gone for a while now and clearly Jazz had roused himself to check on his missing leader.

They instinctively tried to speak to each other in greeting, but after a few awkward moments of incomprehensible huffs and choking noises, Jazz just shrugged and gave up.

Optimus offered him a warm smile instead, and Jazz upped the ante with his trade-marked playful grin, and that was enough. Instead of words, they used their fields, expressions, and random, unassigned servo gestures to communicate. Conversations were difficult, but still possible as eons of struggling and huddling in trenches together made for strong bonds, and it wasn't too hard to understand his closest friends.

Jazz stopped at the rim of the makeshift tub, and his lip plates quirked. He couldn't help but look at the roiling hot fluid with longing. His optics dropped unbidden to his own protoform, also caked with filth. But he raised his optics without missing a beat, trying to ignore the steaming bath as he leaned over to start gesturing at Optimus.

But Optimus scooted over as far as possible, leaving space for one more. Stripped as they were, there was just enough room. Refusing to accept Jazz’s protesting flailing, Optimus took hold of the saboteur and began to pull him forward. A few soft coaxing clicks later, and Jazz was up to his neck in the warm fluid, and they enjoyed the bath together.

 _We will have to get the others cleaned up as well,_ Optimus motioned, pointing at the fluid and then waving back towards the rest of the Autobots. Without language processing, he didn’t have anything as formal as Hand. Freeform gestures were all he had to work with, though he was getting better with practice.

Jazz nodded, and then sank even further into the comforting fluid. A soft moan of pleasure escaped as he relaxed. The filter in the sanitizing tub worked hard to keep the water clean, and the filth washed away in a hurry. His clean proto-mesh revealed deep, harsh cuts from where they'd stripped him, the wounds slow to heal for the cruelty he had endured.

Optimus looked away, shaken.

He hadn't recovered from the brutal stripping procedure either, still shocked and numb for what they had done to him, still coming to terms with the changes. Beyond the physical, his new-old carrier coding was alive within him, a throwback from primitive times when it was needed for survival. He found its usefulness questionable. His anxiety levels were far higher than he was used to, and no small part of that was due to the lack of contact with his counterpart.

The coding had changed recently, further ramped up his anxiety when needed interactions never occurred. The coding had sensed that he'd been without for too long - as if he'd been abandoned or his mate had been slain. The simmering charge down below remained a constant ache, though worse was the strong urges to flee and hide. He felt exposed … but there was nothing to do but wait out the mild panic attacks that ensued.

 _Carrier moments, they used to call them._ He fidgeted and his optics unfocused. His fingers clenched around rim of the medical tub. But Jazz wasn't willing to let him brood in peace. He flicked Optimus on his nasal ridge with teasing fingers, forcing him out of his worries.

 _Stop that_ , Jazz meant.

Optimus offered a smile and reached out for Jazz. His delicate, bare servos hovered over the other, careful to ask permission before touching him in such an intimate way. Optimus knew he was welcome, but he asked anyway. So much of their functioning in captivity lacked consent. It was sheer luxury to hold self-autonomy back in their servos.

Jazz gave him a small smile in return.

Receiving permission, Optimus encircled Jazz into his arms. His touch was light and comforting as he pulled the other closer. His expressive optics softened as he tapped at the spot above Jazz’s spark and made a questioning gesture.

_How are you holding up?_

Jazz tilted his helm, and the small smile re-appeared at the corner of his mouth. He pointed at himself and waved his servo dismissively. _You know me, boss._

 _I do,_ Optimus relaxed a little, then pointedly scowled down at his exposed protoform, sunken beneath the roiling fluid. His belly was noticeably distended, and there was no questioning his status. He looked back up at Jazz questioningly… _but this is well beyond tolerance._

Jazz just shrugged. _Still kicking …_ Jazz pointed at himself and mimed a kick with his bare pede … _still alive_. _Can’t hardly believe this …_ and he waved his servo at the escape pod.

Optimus nodded. _We were fortunate._

After a long moment Optimus relaxed further into the steaming fluid while staring down at his rounded belly with a doubtful expression. He caught Jazz looking too, and then Jazz frowned down at his own abdominals. They weren't as distended yet, but there was definitely somebot in there.

 _What about this?_ Jazz looked up at him with melancholy.

Optimus just shrugged after a long moment of wordless contemplation. _I don’t know_. _I have no idea what to do._ He didn’t know what he felt about the newspark he was carrying yet. His spark held no strong emotions for the tiny being now dependent upon him; too much had happened for clarity, and only time and rest could help ease the numbness.

 _It may not be in my servos to decide,_ Optimus realized as Jazz poked at his own lower frame, now worrying at the apparatus in his valve, wanting more than anything to get it _out._

Without the Quintesson support pod, chances were high that he would lose his newspark. Their captors had never intended him to leave the pod; their support systems would have functioned as his body eventually, as only his gestation systems were of any interest to them. The lack of proper nourishment and stress would surely take their toll, not to mention the sorry state of his frame.

Optimus rubbed at his chest plates and tried not to fret.

 _What is coming will come_ , he motioned and Jazz nodded in solemn understanding. The Porsche leaned back in the tub, giving up on poking at himself and saluted his leader instead. The movement was formal, but his quirky smile turned it into a playful gesture.

Optimus shook his helm, waving away the formal solute with a sudden frown. He struggled to explain himself, to express the surge of self-loathing and shame he felt at the sight. His servos jerked back and forth in harsh motions.

 _I am no longer a Prime. I have failed us all. I will find a way to rescue the others from the Quintesson … somehow ... but the war is over._ _I will see us all to safety and I will protect us. That is my function now._

Jazz watched Optimus’ little hissy fit and his helm tilted in confusion. He didn’t understand any of it, but he was well aware of his leader’s tendency for self-flagellation. He'd seen that particular look in Optimus Prime's eyes before, usually after some painful defeat during the eons long past. Unmoved, Jazz just saluted him again. His gesture was insistent now, with all hint of playfulness gone.

 _You are my leader. You are my Prime_.

Optimus worked his intakes in frustration. He struggled to think of a way to explain the heavy concerns and half-formed decisions rattling through his processor, but the concepts were too complicated for clumsy hand-waving. Finally, he gave up and leaned back with a sigh.

Jazz had stopped paying attention in the meantime, and was looking away with a frown. He was looking back towards where Prowl lay dreaming. He sighed and shook his helm. His stilted movements sent little splashes all around him, and he moved as if he could just ... rattle something loose and think normally again. His servos scratched at a hole inside him that he couldn’t reach.

Optimus understood the feeling. He reached out and cupped his face, and Jazz answered his compassionate blue optics with frustration, of both body and spark. It was a feeling shared through their fields and Optimus pressed in close.

 _Try not to fight it. Let the lost words go and just breathe …_ Optimus pressed their foreheads together, his servos squeezing gently … _we are stronger together_.

Jazz ex-vented over his face plates and leaned into the Prime, relaxing into the other as he was enveloped into a powerful embrace. He had the carrier-coding too, and resting his helm on Optimus' shoulder, he was well aware where all the extra touchy-feely was originating from. It was one change he didn’t mind so much.

Long moments passed and both were happy to be free and capable of enjoying each other's company. They spent another few breems together, drowsing sleepily, until distant sounds of engine grumbles roused them.

Optimus' absence had gone on too long.

Ratchet wasn't happy, and if Ratchet wasn't happy _nobody_ was happy, and he was hard at work riling up the others with his fussing. And so they reluctantly dragged themselves from the comforting fluid. Leaning on each other, they made their way back to the huddle of Autobots at the back of the ship.

They both settled amongst the others and Optimus watched as Jazz rejoined Prowl, nuzzling against him in a protective cuddle. If the saboteur noticed the frown creeping across Prowl's lip plating, he didn’t acknowledge it.

 _This is going to be a problem,_ Optimus realized. _I will have to address it ... and soon._

Prowl and Jazz had had a turbulent relationship, and their latest break up had been relatively recent ... only weeks before the invasion. They'd been working on their problems, and seemed committed to each other, but then Prowl grew cagey. Out of the blue, he began distancing himself from everyone. Jazz had been taken by surprise when informed of his new single status, the crushing news delivered in cold, clipped words.

Jazz was still trying to understand what had triggered the rejection. His spark was still tangled around Prowl's fingers, and he'd had been spark-sick when his every attempt to reconcile was turned away. Ever since their capture, he'd been trying to cozy back up to the other black and white, and now that Prowl couldn’t push him away…

Optimus pressed such concerns out of his processor. These were problems for another day. There were worse things than protective embraces from someone who loved you, even if they really shouldn’t. After all, it wasn’t like _he_ would be sleeping alone either.

With that non-thought, Optimus began to press his way into the nestled mass of Autobots. He kept his fields tucked away at first, instinctively trying to be polite, but his clean-smelling body was emanating delightful warmth. The others immediately began struggling to get as close to him as possible, even to the point of jostling each other.

Optimus sighed at all the squirming, grumbling, and engine squealing, and extended his EM fields again. His strong presence blanketed his surviving Autobots, and the fussing quieted as they calmed and settled, feeling much safer with him so close.

Much warmer, too.

Optimus didn’t feel safe, didn't feel he deserved such complete trust anymore. But in forcing himself to relax for the sake of the others, his mind finally followed his body, and he drifted off into a restful recharge.

 

* * *

 

_Easy now…_

Optimus’ normal, deep vocal tones were missing, but his kindly sentiments still shined in his optics and in the gentle purr of his heavy engine.

It was the morning cycle and he was making good on his promises. Prowl and Bumblebee were already clean, and now Optimus was rumbling reassurances to Sideswipe, coaxing him towards the hot, steaming bath he and Jazz had prepared.

But Sideswipe set his feet in stubborn rejection. His time spent trapped in the Quintesson support pod meant the Lamborghini and tubs of fluid were not on speaking terms, not for the foreseeable future. The swirling fluid was triggering dreadful memory-files and Sideswipe balked again and again, but Optimus didn’t pause. Whatever his feelings on the matter, Sideswipe smelled like something long dead. There were splatters of half-digested fuel paste in his seams, rotting in his gouges and aggravating his bitter wounds.

Optimus was unwilling to leave Sideswipe in such a pitiful state. Instead, he kept up a gentle pressure and pulled Sideswipe after him. His Autobot was in desperate need of a bath, and Optimus was going to see him get it.

Jazz motioned encouragement to Sideswipe _–_ _bath time’s a good time, mech! _–__ as he helped the rest of the Autobots from the sleeping chamber. He laid the dreaming Ratchet out on the floor, and then helped Perceptor and Wheeljack settle down, their back struts pressed against the wall for support.

All around them the escape pod hummed methodically, the dull thrumming a comforting background noise.

Perceptor wrapped his arms around his battered protoform and laid his helm in his own lap and went back into recharge. Next to him Wheeljack blinked sleepy optics, and threatened to do the same. Then he heard the splish-splash of the warm, steaming bath nearby and perked up. He re-opened his optics; such a lovely sight was worth waking up for.

_Clunk!_

Sideswipe kicked the tub with his pede, fighting Optimus’ attempts to hoist him over the rim. He grunted irritably for his stubbed foot, no longer protected by thick armor plating. Then he kicked the tub again and Optimus huffed at him in reproach; sometimes he really was too stubborn for his own good.

 _No bath,_ Sideswipe insisted.

Optimus shook his helm, one arm tucked around the twin, the large servo gently cupped to support the slightly protruding belly. The other servo gestured at the frothing, churning fluid with insistent motions. _We don’t have any cloths, just blankets. We need to clean your wounds. Now get in that tub!_

_No!_

Sideswipe refused as Optimus lifted him again. He promptly planted his throbbing pede against the rim of the tub and pushed away, scowling at Optimus as they wrestled.

_No bath!_

Optimus pulled out the big guns – _I will tell Ratchet_ – and pointed at the red and white medic, he-with-the-wrench and mech-of-many-grumbles.

Sideswipe snorted, and waved his servo dismissively. _Ratchet’s unconscious._

 _Not forever,_ Wheeljack gestured, his movements weak and half-sparked. He didn’t bother to try to explain manual defrag cycles and the natural mechanics of severe head injuries left to heal without medical help. Those concepts were far too complicated for mere hand gestures. Instead he just motioned at Ratchet’s helm and pointed at his surgery wound and mimed waking up.

Optimus huffed in soft relief. _Thank Primus._

Wheeljack frowned. He hesitated for a moment, and then made a circle with his fingers to include them all, and tapped at his helm. _All of us will sleep. It will happen to all of us._ He closed his optics and mimed sleeping and then not waking up for a long time.

Jazz glanced over at Optimus and they shared a look. They could all feel it, that hole in their minds, the ever-present itch. Trying to think made it worse, and traveling down that road led to sleep and long dreams.

 _Can’t._ Optimus frowned and waved around at the pod. _Can’t sleep now… not safe, not yet._

Wheeljack shrugged. _Not in your hands, maybe._ He waved his servos as if dropping something.

Optimus and Jazz both cocked their helms, puzzling over the confusing gesture.

Sideswipe took the distraction for the opportunity it was. He wrenched free of Optimus’ insistent grip, engine revving in triumph as he bolted away. He hobbled back towards the sleeping area as fast as he could manage, and whatever the state of his body, his spark remained unconquered. There was no way he was going into that vile cauldron of frothing chemicals without a fight! His engine shrilled out as he disappeared into the dark sleeping chamber.

… _No bath!_

Optimus huffed, looking after him with exasperation. _Don’t want to force him, but his wounds…_

 _If you don’t get him I will tell Ratchet,_ Jazz threatened him with a cheerful look, pointing at the medic and miming running his mouth.

Optimus cocked a brow ridge in mock disapproval. _Turnabout is not fair play ..._ though Jazz never was one to play fair.

The fiendish saboteur smirked and pulled something out of his subspace, waving it under Optimus’ nasal sensor. _Look, I even saved his glitch-slapping wrench for him! ..._ and rocking back with bright optics, Jazz oh-so-merrily turned Optimus' own threats against him. He was finding the coming bout of Lamborghini vs. Peterbilt Truck: Bubblebath Boogaloo wildly amusing, and didn't bother to hide it in the slightest.

Optimus was less enthused, but it was good to see Jazz so cheerful. The last few breems of tending and comforting the others had seen him behaving more like his old self, and the twinkle in his optics was heartening. Still, he had a task to do, and with a deep engine sigh, the juggernaut (still the largest among them, even without his plating) turned and plodded after the escaping twin.

After hauling Sideswipe out from under the berth, Optimus threw him over his shoulder and began plodding back towards the medical alcove-turned-bath. His pace was slow and methodical, and his nasal sensor wrinkled for the smell of Sideswipe’s wounds. _Not letting you rot to death just because you lack common sense._

The Lamborghini flashed all manners of rude gestures and revved his high-performance engine in furious complaint. _No bath! No bath! No bath!_

The Peterbilt Truck’s lip plating dropped into a mild frown, his expression otherwise even, back strut straight and blue optics endlessly dignified. Then a massive, diesel-rumble-roar drowned out the Lamborghini’s best efforts as The Prime laid down the law.

_BATHTIME!_

_Grumble …_ and Ratchet’s engine added to the hullabaloo, while next to him Jazz was shaking with laughter at the imaginative gesture-expletives. Nearby, Bumblebee smiled faintly while scratching continuously at his helm, feeling better for being clean, though his scratching was near-constant now.

Optimus smiled down at Ratchet as he stepped over the medic’s legs in the cramped corridor. _Patience old friend, you are next …_ and then one fussy Lamborghini had no choice but to make peace with the waiting tub. _One, two, three_ and down he went, right into the cleansing fluid.

_Splash!_

There was a rapid-fire sound then … high-pitched and entirely out of place _… squeak squeak!_ … as Jazz threw something into the frothing fluid that bounced and floated.

Sideswipe, submerged to his chest and soaking, stared at the bobbing yellow item. Then he grabbed it with a scowl and threw it back with disgust _– don’t need this! –_ but Jazz caught it and threw it back in one smooth motion. It bounced off the wall with a protesting _squeak_ and landed back into the tub.

 _Hey,_ the saboteur warned with mock anger … _No dissing!_ … his optics flashed with what could have been dangerous threat, except he couldn’t stifle his playful smirk fast enough. _Respect the Squeaky._

Optimus blinked at the curious thing. It bobbed gaily in the tub, resembling an aquatic earth avian. He cocked an eye-ridge and looked over his shoulder at Jazz. _Of all the things you could have stashed in your subspace, you kept **this**?_

Jazz snapped the fingers of both servos and pointed them at Optimus. _I said no dissing, foo,_ and the smooth-as-glass grin remained.

At this point Optimus decided arguing over such nonsense was beneath him and so he returned his attention to the sad little Lambo instead. Leaning over the tub and a sulking Sideswipe, he glanced back down at the bobbing thing and then finally realized what Jazz was up to. The bottom of the ... Squeaky ... was dripping purple fluid into the tub water.

Disinfectant.

Jazz must have picked it up on Earth to add to his cleansing rituals, as otherwise all manner of tiny organic matter tended to grow in hard to reach places. It was one of the drawbacks of spending time on that lovely blue world.

Now Optimus approved, and he began tending to Sideswipe's cuts. He was further pleased when Sideswipe’s electromagnetic fields stopped surging as the harsh sting of his injuries soothed for the wonderful fluid. His engine rumbled steady reassurance as he rubbed a soft cloth over the more worrying areas. His scrubbing was gentle but insistent and it wasn't long before the filth washed away, leaving only clean protoform behind.

Sideswipe still ached, but it was a _clean_ ache, one that promised accelerated healing. Pulling in a few in-vents, Sideswipe's nasal sensors registered the sharp, pleasant scent of cleanser/disinfectant instead of the sickly-sweet smell of rot that had insistently followed him. He finally relaxed as large, kind hands worked over his sore mesh, rubbing him in gentle circles.

The Squeaky bobbed and bobbed around him, and Sideswipe laid his helm back and drowsed.

 

* * *

 

Shouting guards heralded the arrival of the _Retribution_ in orbit above the prison world Uytis.

Tensions rose to the boiling point as prisoners were forced from their cells in succession and marched down a far corridor. Mecha that even considered causing trouble were shot dead on the spot, as the Maulers gave no quarter.

“Keep moving,” the wardens yelled, but stopped walking with the prisoners, waving them forward. Then the guards disappeared, and behind the prisoners a massive energy field popped into existence. The orange field buzzed harshly, and began to advance down the corridor, forcing the mass of prisoners to keep moving.

Funneled down to a massive open room inside the prison ship, the alien prisoners from the other cell blocks joined them at one of the junctions and they jostled and shoved at each other. But the Cybertronians have such a bad reputation that the rest of the prisoners stay as far away from them as possible. The only exception was the Ammonites, who chose the devil they know and remained as close as they could.

“Can’t believe we are just letting them dump us in a slaghole without a fight,” Vortex hissed.

Onslaught grunted. “You see anyone to clobber, you let me know.” The guards were gone now. Only solid metal walls and the buzzing, threatening energy barrier advancing behind them were visible, forcing them onward down the corridor.

To be fair, with only blunt force weapons available, Onslaught’s options for trouble-making were rather sparse. All his internal weaponry remained locked down once the Quintesson controls went offline. It was a failsafe to keep their slaves from escaping, and until Hook could have a few hours to work on each of them, the devices were still working as intended.

Finally they were all gathered into a heavily-enforced, massive chamber. The heavy doors sealed behind them and immediately the various species of mechanoids instinctively separated into groups of like kind.

Onslaught and his team hovered near each other, growing more anxious and excitable as the astro-seconds passed. He could overhear other prisoners worrying, speaking in hushed and fearful tones. This colony was for lifers, murders and other dangerous, violent mechanisms and the planetoid itself was inhospitable for life of any kind.

Only the strong will survive.

“Stay close, and prepare for battle as you can!” Megatron was giving last minute orders while moving through the tightly-packed crowd of Cybertronians, his powerful vocalizer booming above the growing ruckus. He encouraged his soldiers with the utmost confidence, optics burning brightly. Preparing everyone for the fight that was surely coming, he called out as he walked, “If you have an extra weapon, share with your brothers!”

Megatron clasped Onslaught on his shoulder as he passed, his limp barely noticeable, and the Combaticon leader flashed him a swift salute.

“Combaticons!” Onslaught addressed his team as Megatron disappeared through the crowd. “Keep close, and maintain L formation. Watch each other’s back plates… we hit the ground hard and _no mercy_.”

“We used to have mercy?” Swindle asked with a sideways grin. “News to me.”

Brawl and Swindle bumped fists, while Vortex tried to fist-bump Onslaught, who was too busy to notice. He was carefully adjusting his own position to cover for their missing team mate. Visors flashed as the rest of his team fell into a well-practiced, aggressive formation to greet whatever awaited them on the surface.

Across from them, Long Haul was doing something similar, though without the military precision. “Break all the things,” he said to them, and the Constructicons grinned as one. This was one passion they all shared, and why Devastator functioned so well as a unit.

There was a massive vibration and hum as the teleportation device warmed up. _They are teleporting us all at once,_ Onslaught realized. The time for revolt was now, but low on fuel, with no enemies within reach and confined by heavy duty walls ... there was nothing he or any of them could do but weather this new storm.

Instead, Onslaught braced himself against the inevitable disorient of transit, as mass teleportation was rarely comfortable.

He watched as the command trine, Skywarp and Thundercracker, smashed their fists together and the two seekers positioned themselves back to back, both dropping into a classic Vosian battle stance.

Sunstreaker saw them too.

He saw the shared look of determination on their face plates and it reminded him of his twin. His expression twisted with hate and a strange sort of anticipation. The golden mech set his pedes and clenched his fists. He ached to take his pain out on the first idiot offering him the chance. The front-liner was ready for anything and a fretful Breakdown stayed as near to him as possible.

The hum amplified to a screaming wild rush, culminating with an explosion of light, and everything changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For ease of understanding, I am writing the stripped Autobots as actively having thoughts, but keep in mind that they aren’t actually thinking…they aren’t using the words but merely experiencing the knowing.
> 
> When they sign something, they have to recognize the meaning through visual cues/memory only. For example when you look at a bird, you know what it is, even if you can’t remember the name of it. Your knowledge remains, and if you see a movement that reminds you of a bird, you can still grasp meaning.
> 
> The Autobots are fully cognizant and sapient and remember the concept of the written/spoken word, but they are left with only the visual portion of memory. With the language processing part of their brain module removed, they are currently trapped in a state of reacting to everything instinctively/emotionally/visually instead of with actual thought, unable to understand or speak words.
> 
> It’s comparable to having something happen and you have a full awareness, but the mental voice inside is silent. When you try to mentally speak to yourself, all you get is the irritating feeling of knowing you know a word, right at the tip of your tongue, but just can’t recall it (for every single word).


	9. Seizure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Megatron is reunited with an old… friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** This story can get very dark, and please be aware of that. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :)

Uytis' star was a white dwarf and not particularly large or hot for its type, but its overbearing presence was far too close.

Harsh, blinding white starlight struck them first, along with a blast of intense heat. The prisoners startled and many servos slapped over optics. A shocking stench of sulfur and dioxide gases rushed over them, prickling at their nasal sensors.

"Primus," Breakdown coughed, both hands covering his face plates to try and block out both the light and the smell.

Nearby, Megatron blinked as his optics adjusted for the streaming light. He dropped his servos and stared upwards at the brilliant star looming above. It was dying a long, protracted death and seemed bitter for it. Dominating the sky, the star remnant blasted down upon the face of the planetoid without mercy.

Crackles of burning, red-hot rocks smoldered in cracks of black char. Adding to the noise, a fitful energy field buzzed around them, serving as protection from the smoldering furnace that was the planet surface.

Dropping his gaze, Megatron stared when he realized they had materialized on a platform and it was transparent. Peering down past his feet, he could see a receiving pad far below.

Around him, others rustled and peered about. "Where is the prison?" a frightened Lithonian shouted from further away.

"Where's the fight?!" Brawl shouted back, smashing his fists together with a _clunk_. "They promised me a fight!"

"They will be waiting for us down there." The Ammonites pointed at the sunken pad far below, even as the platform beneath them jolted. It began to lower, moving with the creaky rattling of ancient, heat-blasted machinery.

"Hold your positions!" Megatron ordered, and adjusted his pedes to remain steady as the clear platform began to descend. Soon the violent starlight grew dimmer for the ever-deepening walls. They dropped down for over a mile, deep into the underground. The tunnel widened into a spacious cavern half-way down.

The light still streamed from far above, still hot and bright as the star peered resentfully down into the hole after them.

They dropped close enough to make out some details of the prison below, and Megatron noted the particular cut of the walls and the way the construction was all metal grating… _this prison uses the star's light for illumination by design._

"Titan-steel," Long Haul identified the metal, and Hook nodded agreement with his assessment.

Levels and levels of massive, interconnected grates made up most of the immense structure, even down to the rocky ground. Light penetrated down between the slats, fading into tolerable levels except for a very bright disk of hot light, focused around the large, circular courtyard. The courtyard was directly beneath the hole in the cavern's ceiling, and the design repeated layer by layer until the ground level.

Around the edges of each layer of the circular grating structure, caves have been cut into the rock and that is where most of the individual prisoner cells were located. One of the caves on the top layer was sealed off by some sort of flickering energy shield.

"Sturdy construction, even if it lacks style," Hook said in begrudging acceptance of the alien layout.

Skywarp snorted. "The grating for each layer means the mechs in the top floors could drop all sorts of slag on the ones below..."

"Sounds like your kind of fun," Brawl laughed, and Skywarp tilted his helm with a grin of acknowledgement. May Primus have mercy on any mech forced to live in the strata beneath the purple menace…

"Focus," Megatron warned, not liking what he was seeing in the slightest. They were approaching the receiving pad and smaller details were coming into focus.

Onslaught caught sight of what put Megatron off a moment later. "Well, now isn't _that_ just delightful."

The first hint that Brawl was certain to get his fight was the maimed corpses dangling everywhere. Hollowed out and impaled, some were suspended by their denta from the ceiling, some hanging from catwalks, while others were interwoven through the bars and grating. They added to the ominous but rather festive atmosphere coming into view, as the bodies were arranged as if they were happy. Mouths upturned in cheerful rictus, they looked as if they were enjoying a spectacle in the main courtyard. The arrangements were painstaking, as if some dedicated mech had been hard at work setting them up _just so_.

An unpleasant suspicion coiled in Megatron's fuel tanks. The macabre attention to detail and the way the courtyard resembled an old gladiatorial arena was unsettling in its familiarity... and then the lift shuddered to a halt. Reaching the receiving pad, rough gears creaked as they locked into place.

“Incoming!” Onslaught shouted as a large net dropped over them and they fell under siege.

Beside him, Brawl howled in outrage for the cheap tactics. “What the frag is this?! Come here and _fight me_ you sorry slaggers!”

“Careful what you wish for,” Thundercracker muttered as a horde of various species charged them, shrieking and hollering.

They were a wild-looking crew of powerful mechanoids. Shouts of alarm erupted from the new arrivals and Megatron grabbed at the net restraining them. Although crude, it was stout. Their attackers began to overtake them as they struggled to shred it.

Megatron destroyed the net’s main connector as he bellowed orders. “Warbuilds to the front, smaller builds defend them from behind! Keep your heavier brothers from being swamped and pulled down!”

“Combaticons, reform on me!” Onslaught roared out, and his team struggled to obey, kicking away the last remnants of the constricting net. 

Megatron grunted when Brawl stumbled and jostled him, his knee joint sending a shock of pain up his leg. Ignoring it, he smashed his fist into an attacker, knocking the wretch back.

The Cybertronians fought fiercely and managed to stand their ground. All around them, the less hardy races fell under the assault. Soon the smarter mechanoids began to try to hide behind the more aggressive Cybertronian fighters.

 _They are focusing on the smaller mechs first,_ Megatron realized. He saw several small mechs snatched up and tossed back into the thrashing gang of attackers, immediately torn to pieces.

The Ammonites noticed as well.

There was a series of rattles and clicks as they disengaged and fell into their smallest forms. After a signal from their leader, they burst forward, fleeing in separate directions. Darting between the legs of the attackers, it was clear they were heading for the edge of the courtyard. Their small size would be an advantage if they can reach the grating of the prison proper. The slats are wide enough there that the tiny mini-mechs could make it through.

The gang members pounced and shrieks of pain followed them as several of the little mechs were immediately dispatched. There were manic shouts as the gang members tried to block the rest from escaping. But half of the Ammonites made it to the edge. Six little mechs slipped through and dropped down level by level, fleeing towards the deeper places to get as far away from the madness as possible. It was not long before only the larger mechs and the hardy Cybertronians remained.

Megatron found himself at the forefront along with Sunstreaker, Snarl, and the Combaticons and Constructicons. They fought together, lashing out with fists and pedes as the front-liners held off the disorganized, but vicious prisoners.

A call sounded then, smooth and familiar. The gang members started to pull back, responding to the voice like well-trained dogs.

Megatron took the opportunity and surged forward. He managed to grab one of them, and dragged him back. The alien mech whined and squirmed, dangling from the vicious black fist wrapped around his neck.

“Go ahead,” Megatron gloated over his prisoner, “Give me a reason to end you, and know I will enjoy it.” The alien mech kicked out and Megatron tightened his grip until the other was choking. Bracing his injured knee joint, he tightened the squeeze. Satisfaction filled him for the resulting gasps and he smirked. _Perhaps this wreck will serve as a bit of leverage against whoever is coming._

Then the threatening group of mechs fell silent, parting for what had to be the leader of the gang.

Megatron's confident smirk faded an instant later. His optics widened as his rival’s heavy frame, powerful servos, and feverish gaze parted the crowd, striding to stand before him.

A glossa dragged across full, lush lips.

_Oh Primus._

 

* * *

 

Soundwave initiated a comm request, and moments later Ultra Magnus’ face lit up his screen. “This is Ultra Magnus _–_ ”

Next to Soundwave, Bob yelped as Ravage snarled at him for getting too close. He almost made it to Soundwave's lap that time. Soundwave reached a distracted hand down and patted the nervous Insecticon.

“–Soundwave.” Magnus’ vocalizer remained professional, but his tone dropped. He wasn’t happy to see the blue spy, but because of their pitiful numbers, defending Cybertron meant they needed to work together. 

Ultra Magnus squared his shoulders, and to his credit, his demeanor remained above reproach. “Did you have information to share?"

Soundwave dipped his helm in affirmative. He was currently monitoring all Quintesson communication lines while trying to locate Megatron and offered critical Intel on troop movements and supply schedules. In return, Ultra Magnus kept him up to date on the struggle against the Quintesson occupation of Cybertron.

There was rarely any good news offered, though.

The Autobot campaign could be summed up in one word: ineffectual. It didn't help that although the peace treaty remained, both factions were fighting separate campaigns against the Quintesson.

The Decepticons had imploded into useless in-fighting over who was to take command with the loss of both Starscream and Megatron, and Soundwave was unwilling to wade into that hot mess himself. Far better to locate Megatron and let _him_ beat the errant Decepticon soldiery back in line.

Commanding their rag-tag fleet from their flagship, the _Lost Light_ , the Autobots appeared to be having their own leadership issues.  

“Hey Maggie! Who’s on the horn?” Rodimus’ cheery vocalizer called out from the background, along with a curious creaking noise.

_creak...creak...creak..._

Ultra Magnus flinched for the nickname and looked over his shoulder to address his captain. Soundwave tilted his helm when Ultra Magnus' oversized pauldrons swiveled out of the way. He could just make out the leader of the Autobot Resistance and Captain of the _Lost Light_ in the background.

_...Wait._

Soundwave craned his neck with sudden curiosity as the creaking became a continuous buzz. Was the _Lost Light's_ captain... _spinning around in his captain's chair?_

_He was!_

Soundwave stared over Ultra Magnus' shoulder in rapt fascination.

“Soundwave has contacted us, and didn’t we” – the communication line grew muffled as Ultra Magnus covered the microphone with a servo – “talk about this? It is _disrespectful_ to address a fellow officer by a shortened designation.”

In the background, Rodimus was barely holding on for the G-forces.

The captain’s chair whirled with stupendous speed and then Rodimus kicked off the floor again. Velocities previously unknown to chair-kind were reached and _surpassed_. Chair and mech became as one: a complete gray-red-orange blur.

“Rodimus?”

_creakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreakcreak_

**“Rodimus!”**

"Whatever! It’s just a term of endearment! And yes we did talk about it! We both agreed you are too uptight–”

“No Rodimus, we did not. _You_ said that, and then pretended to have a _grand mal seizure_ when I reminded you of Subsection 42, Paragraph 7 of the Autobot Code, in regards to appropriate ways to address a fellow officer–”

“Hey! What did I _say_ about yelling legalese at me without any warning?”

Rodimus frantically clamped his servos to his audials for the pain.  Grip suddenly lost, his body surrendered to the centrifugal forces and he went flying across the bridge right into the wall.

_WHAM!_

“–Primus _damn it_ Maggie!”

“Do we _really_ have to keep holding up these score cards?” Chromedome’s apathetic vocalizer called out from the background while next to him, Rewind had already hefted his – ‘Chair- 42’ – and was waving it around with cheerful enthusiasm.

Soundwave’s visor flashed in growing exasperation. “Ultra Magnus," his monotone cut through the argument, "I have information to trade and very little time.”

“ _Wait_ , did you say _Soundwave_? Tell him to slag off!”

Ultra Magnus muttered something and returned his attention to the communication line. “Apologies, Soundwave, just one moment while I _–_ ”

There was a flash of red and orange and Ultra Magnus whirled in place. He shoved Rodimus away and only barely stopped his captain from severing the comm line.

Then Rodimus vaulted up onto Magnus’ shoulders. “We talked about this too! We don’t need any help from _Decepticons_!” He began reaching for the comm panel and a full on slap-fight broke out between the two commanders.

“Rodimus,” Magnus insisted frantically as they battled, “we _need_ him! We don’t have any intelligence on enemy movements _–”_

Soundwave blinked as the comm line transferred from external to Ultra Magnus’ internal HUD.

A crash and a blur of color flashed onscreen as the besieged Magnus dived for the lift. He hit the back of the lift hard. Whirling, he began repeatedly hitting the ‘close door’ button with his pede _–_ _click click click click _–__ as Rodimus’ pedes left the floor in an almighty leap. Magnus internal view focused on Rodimus’ shocked face an instant before the lift doors shut without a micron to spare.

There was a planet-shattering _whump_ and then the exquisitely cheerful _ping!_ of an emergency override. Magnus gasped and launched forward. He thwacked at the controls in a back and forth over ride battle until finally the lift started moving.

“I apologize for the disruption,” Ultra Magnus said in his utmost professional tone as his stern face plates filled the screen, having flipped the viewpoint. “You indicated that you have information to trade?”

 _My life is a never-ending clown parade of unimaginable nonsense_ , Magnus didn’t say, though Soundwave could pick up on the subtleties. He chose to keep all off-topic commentary to himself for the greater good.

Underneath his chair, Ravage was choking in spasms of kitty-mirth while an exuberant Bob chased his stubby tail in wild circles, utterly overcome with happiness for all the loud noises.

Bob _loved_ loud noises!  Oh joy and _happiness!_

Soundwave immediately transferred a copy of the transcripts of the Galactic Council's verdict. This was a troubling situation, beyond the complete injustice of the verdict. All Cybertronians fell under the umbrella ruling, and new reports coming in confirmed the Galactic Council was arresting everyone they could reach.

Ultra Magnus looked shocked, and then irritated. “This is not a valid ruling and it wouldn’t stand up in any proper court.”

Soundwave dipped his helm in agreement. “Ruling must be challenged.”

“Understood,” Ultra Magnus said. “Did you have anything else to trade?”

Instead of answering, Soundwave began transferring all stolen intelligence to Magnus, along with communiques of upcoming troop movements and supply deliveries.

“ _Vector Sigma_ ,” Ultra Magnus breathed, seeing the massive troop reallocation lists.

Moments later Soundwave ended the communication, and began skimming through Ultra Magnus' update. There was very little progress evident…lots of shenanigans, though. It was as if the _Lost Light_ was a magnet for odd events and nonsensical happenings, driven to odd shores by the reveries of some delightfully insane scrivener.

_Unfortunate that Optimus Prime is no longer in charge of the Autobots._

Soundwave had decided not to mention Prime. With the majority of the free Decepticons worse than useless right now, the Autobots needed to stay focused on defending Cybertron, and Soundwave didn’t want them distracted.

Soundwave had already sent Prime’s coordinates to the coordinators of a near-by refugee facility, and he had been assured they would track down the little pod and look after the injured mechs. He had to trust the aliens, as there was no one else so far out that could help.

_Prime already managed to escape on his own. Whatever his injuries, he is a most capable mech. So long as he stays away from any dangerous areas, he is far enough away to remain safe. There is no point in distracting the Autobots._

Prime would show up to take control of his faction on his own. Ultra Magnus had enough on his plate right now, of _that_ Soundwave was certain.

Now it was just a matter of finding Megatron…

 

* * *

 

“ **Megatron**!” Overlord roared in sheer delight.

Megatron pulled in a sharp in-vent, taken by surprise. _How in the name of…?_

“How the _Afterspark_ did you get dumped on my doorstep,” Overlord threw open his massive arms in joyful emphasis, “out here in the middle of nowhere?”

The joyous greeting was not reassuring, nor was the rather unhinged look in Overlord’s optics.  Sizing him up, Megatron decided to dispatch him at the earliest opportunity.

_How best to finish him? From the look of this place, he has plunged off the cliff of sanity and landed directly into the Abyss. It appears I have no option but to fight this out and kill him with not more than my bare servos._

The mech gasping in Megatron's grip looked desperately towards Overlord for help, but the maniac didn’t notice. He had optics only for the mech standing before him and was savoring the rattled expression. It was something he would never have noticed if not for a fortunate meeting with Shockwave on Garrus-9.

Realizing the fight Overlord craved was now inevitable, Megatron made a snap decision. _Rattle him, unbalance him, put him down hard and fast._

Making a show of inhaling sharply, Megatron opened his servo and dumped the dangling mech to the ground. Lifting and dropping his pede to pin the unfortunate down, he snapped his fingers as if trying to remember something long forgotten.

Overlord waited for the point with a small smile.

“–Overlord! It has been some time,” Megatron chuckled. “I nearly forgot your designation.”

Megatron’s confident voice boomed across the open space and he shrugged ruefully, as if embarrassed for his gaffe. He knew his words hit their mark when Overlord’s plating tensed slightly, but his adversary recovered far faster than he anticipated.

“Oh,” Overlord’s grin went wide, “You won’t make _that_ mistake again.”

Megatron had desired to unsettle his adversary, but the way Overlord licked his lips suggested he was failing.

“But where are my manners?” Overlord shouted, stealing the show from Megatron with a grin. “Welcome to my humble abode!” He even whirled in place, exposing his back plates for an instant, though Megatron knew better than to think it accidental.

“All of this,” Overlord gestured around him with a dramatic flair, “is my new kingdom!” Around him, his messy-looking followers roared approval, howling his name as if their lives depended on it.

 _Their lives most definitely depend on it._ _Likely controlled through sheer terror, and it explains their vapid optics and all the decorative corpses._

“Mm,” Megatron quirked a critical brow ridge, “rather scruffy-looking, isn’t it?”

“A work in progress,” Overlord assured him with a cheerful grin, and his tone turned confidential. “I strung up the bodies myself. Though if I had _any_ idea you were coming, I would have tidied up a bit.”

Overlord’s mouth tightened into a harsh line. "You never saw Garrus-9. It was some of my best work."

The accusation hung between them, and Megatron just shrugged with a small smile. “I had better things to do,” he said, though he didn't take his optics off his adversary. A soft whine sounded from the alien mech under his pede and he ground down just a little harder.

“So rude,” Overlord laughed. “And after all the trouble I went through for you. I’m going to enjoy making you apologize.”

“ _Rude_?” Megatron placed a servo over his spark as if hurt. “You must understand the realities of ruling an empire. To rule effectively, one must direct one's attention to the bigger picture. It wasn’t personal, far from it! You simply didn’t rate my attention.”

It was a sore point for Overlord and Megatron could tell his words were finding their target. “I would have gotten around to you at some point,” he ground down, “Once I bothered to remember you.”

Overlord’s optics glittered even as he ground his denta for the briefest of moments.  “It seems I’ve saved you the trouble then! You will be thanking me later.” His grin returned and he waved his minions back, clearing a decent space for their bout.

_The only silver lining is my new armature rig is more than a match for Overlord. Even with my time spent in captivity, this should be a simple fight._

“Well then,” Megatron offered his opponent a razor smile. “Shall we get on with it?” Intending to intimidate his enemy, he made a show of crushing the minion, rising and dropping his heavy pede, the grinding of his heavy foot a death blow.

But Overlord merely laughed at the gargled choke Megatron’s pede made of his minion’s last words, and stepped forward. Dropping into a fighting stance, his optics flared in wild excitement.

Megatron was far less thrilled.

 _I will wait until I have an opportunity to drive my hand through his optical socket and into his processor, the only way to quickly reach anything critical with his coating._ _There is no room for grandstanding with him_ , _best to make this short and to the point._

Overconfidence, thy name is Megatron…

 

* * *

 

Optimus frowned in concentration, his slim servos guiding the escape pod towards the docking ramp with trepidation.

Landing at Hyperon’s frontier port was a stressful affair, along with the manual touchdown and docking procedures. He ignored the furious gibberish blasting through the communications console while he struggled with the controls. It helped Optimus had plenty of credits from personal and official accounts. As soon as they entered Hyperon orbit, they were contacted by irritable aliens, no doubt because they weren’t following standard procedures. The aliens had gotten hysterical enough that every time an angry face showed up in his vid screen he simply wired some Shanix until the problem went away. Thankfully bribery tended to solve any number of problems in the galactic rim.

 _Almost there..._ landing a pod was such a mundane thing, and yet so much harder when he couldn't understand the gauges.

Jazz made a soft noise in his sensitive audial, and he huffed back at the anxious saboteur. _Calm down, calm down, I've got this. How many times have I landed a _–__

_BUMP WHOMP!_

Optimus grimaced as the belly of the vessel scratched along the metal of the ramp with a harsh, grinding screech, audible even inside the escape pod.

Jazz snorted and chortled at the same time – _snortled_ – and Optimus rumbled at him. _Would like to see you do better, smart-aft._

Not a moment later frantic limping pede falls sounded behind them as Sideswipe charged from the back of the pod. Bare fists at the ready, optics wild with aggression, the front-liner made it halfway down the corridor before Jazz waved him back with a cheery grin. The twin hesitated, and then limped back towards the others as apparently the apocalypse was cancelled.

Optimus managed to get them landed without further damage to either the ship or the dock, even with Jazz’s nervous fingers digging into the circuitry of his arm. He decided to count that as a personal victory.

Unsealing the pod's main hatch, Optimus wasn’t surprised when angry alien faces reappeared.  He rumbled in irritation and signed documents he couldn’t read, wired yet another sum of Shanix, until they finally left him in peace. He watched with relief as all the angry aliens wandered away.

Across his back and wrapped in a sling, Bumblebee was dreaming, and Optimus hesitated as he looked out over the docks.

 _I’ll take him,_ Jazz offered, pointing at the sling and then his own back.

Bumblebee hadn’t woken up the morning previous, lost to the lucid dreams. Optimus had made a sad noise and wrapped him up in thermal blankets, improvising a sling that rested across his back, and had refused to put the little mech down since.

 _I will take him with me,_ Optimus waved the offer away.

 _Maybe not so safe,_ Jazz shook his helm insistently. _Better to leave him here. I’ll hold him. Swear to Primus he is safe with me._

Optimus frowned and looked over his shoulder at the little mech strapped to his back.

Bumblebee was tiny now, and as the others grew more awake and aware, they had begun fussing over him. His tiny body flipped a switch in the other’s carrier coding, to ‘Bee’s mild exasperation. Not that he had really minded all the extra attention, but _still._ Now that he was lost to the dreams, there was a near constant, very gentle, no-holds-barred, free-for-all tussle fight among the Autobots over who got to hold him.

Sighing, Optimus handed the mini-mech over to a delighted Jazz with great reluctance.

Thus Optimus left the ship by himself, after Jazz promised to keep an optic on the others as well. Wrapped up in a spare thermal blanket, he hid as much of his exposed protoform and bare interface ports as possible.

Step after cautious step, Optimus ventured out of the pod and stepped, blinking, into the bright sunshine of Hyperon.

 

* * *

 

Onslaught watched the fight begin as the two warbuilds circled each other.

"Orders?" Vortex kept his vocalizer low. Their internal comms were still locked down, and no one wanted to look away from the circling combatants to bother with Hand.

Onslaught frowned. "Stay close. I don't like this."

His tense plating was clamped to his frame and Onslaught could tell most of his team felt as anxious as he did. Encircled around the fighters, mechs from both groups stood opposite each other and no one could look away; there was too much at stake for both sides.

 _They are praying Megatron kills him,_ Onslaught realized. He stared out over the rival gang cheering for Overlord, all of them being careful to be as loud as possible. And yet, some of them were literally praying.

" **Bust his aft! Smash him up**!" Brawl roared, cheering for Megatron, and his vocalizer was the loudest there. The tank-former seemed convinced Megatron would be victorious and true to his nature, wasn't thinking beyond the moment.

Onslaught couldn’t help but flinch when Overlord noticed. The ex-general threw him a quick, sideways glance, a look he recognized from a long and unhappy association during the Great War.

 _You and yours are next_.

Onslaught's tension coiled tighter as Megatron slid into a customary battle stance. He hoped Megatron was up to the task. Having defeated Overlord consistently in previous bouts, Megatron seemed completely assured of victory.

Onslaught’s own assessment was not so certain. He tore his attention away from the trash-talking warbuilds to better assess their surroundings. He didn't like what he saw. With all the leering bodies, the main courtyard resembled some sort of main arena for a freak carnival show. There were splatters upon splatters of internal fluid from various species dried onto every surface.

Against the far wall, there was what appeared to be some sort of energy shield, encircling part of the main courtyard and sealing off one of the caves. But he couldn't see past the barricade of trash just within its flickering embrace.

_Curious._

He was almost certain that most of the trash around the courtyard edges were pieces of bodies...and were those _denta marks_? Even odder, all of the bodies were missing small, deep chunks of flesh, concentrated around their arms and legs. _Even the living gang members are covered with those wounds,_ Onslaught realized. _And most of them are missing fingers?_

Death was everywhere, leering out from every corner.

Returning his attention to the fight, Onslaught watched as Megatron and Overlord stopped circling and went helm-to-helm again, battering each other with vicious strikes. Fighting fiercely, they traded blow after blow. The tension within him coiled ever tighter as he saw Megatron was frequently slipping out of stance, having trouble with his knee joint.

But the worst thing was...Overlord noticed.

 _He shouldn't have seen that, not if the Achilles virus was still active._ Onslaught felt cold fingers of dread creep up his spinal strut. _Something is wrong._

Finally Overlord seized an opportunity and bashed his heavy pede against Megatron's injured knee. He had recognized it as a primary weak point the instant he had laid optics on Megatron, as Shockwave’s nasty little virus no longer darkened his processor.

Megatron had waltzed into this fight assuming an advantage he no longer had. He looked stunned when he went down for the blow. He was back up in an instant, but when Overlord lunged for him, he couldn't brace himself properly. He had no choice but to give ground, stumbling back and leaving his chest unguarded.

Overlord lunged forward and snatched at the opening.

Onslaught hissed as Megatron took a brutal hit to the chest plates. Internal fluid splattered as Overlord’s straightened servo, serving as a blunt blade, punctured his chest to disappear inside and then _twisted_ …and he could see defeat looming for his leader.

Off to the side, Long Haul’s optics flashed slightly to catch his attention and they shared a look. _Overlord is not fit to lead a clown circus,_ Long Haul gestured to him in crude Hand.

Onslaught answered in kind, his finger gestures brisk and exacting. _We would be better off fighting Overlord to the death then trying to survive under his insanity._

Face plates impassive, Onslaught watched as Long Haul looked back toward the fighters while signing confirmation. _We will follow your lead in this_ _for now._

Then Onslaught saw Skywarp signing at him. _Count us in._ He blinked and glanced over at the Air Commander for confirmation. _He_ should be calling the shots for the Armada. Thundercracker inclined his helm slightly in agreement with a frown towards Skywarp (who merely stuck his glossa out at his bestest buddy) …but now was not the time.

"Combaticons to me," Onslaught rumbled sub-vocally. He made a particular motion…the glyph for _brutal_ in Hand and prepared to interfere. He fully opened his side of the gestalt bond. He didn't have to say more; they all knew the stakes and followed suit. No matter what, they couldn’t let Overlord take control.

Far, far away, Blast Off dropped to his knees in a tiny, featureless cell. With the loss of so many gestating mechs _and_ war mechs, his fate was currently on hold, still being debated by his owners. He’d never closed his side of their bond and he gasped as within them all, a dark force stirred and roused.

Then Megatron went down for good.

 

* * *

 

Optimus walked down the long docking platform, placing one bare pede after the other. He moved slowly and carefully to maintain his balance; he was still unused to the extra weight on his front.

There was a warm wind blowing, and his wrappings whirled around him. The bright sunshine warmed the metal ground, and it felt good under his bare feet. Kites and flags and colorful banners were flapping in the breeze above him, and walking under the massive expanse of sky was invigorating.

They were docked the furthest out as possible, though the long walk was pleasant enough. He paused to rest and peer down the row, making out the blurry masses of large starships, with even more docked in higher tiers. As far as frontier ports went, this one was rather large as it was a main port for bigger ships for this sector.

Dock workers of all shapes and sizes were scurrying about, loading and unloading ships, docking cargo ferries, helping passengers disembark, and any number of other mundane tasks. The hustle and bustle was comforting in its normality, as he had seen such sights many times before.

Of all the ships at dock, the one three tiers above was the most impressive, a massive hulking brute of a transport vessel. He saw the ship’s name printed across the side, but the identifying marks of the _Retribution_ were mere gibberish to him.

Looking back over his shoulder at their tiny ship, Optimus was reminded of the silly argument he’d seen that morning. He had awakened to see Jazz and Sideswipe fighting over what to name their egg-shaped little pod.

He still had no idea what they had finally agreed on. But the Porsche-Lambo Naming Committee frequently broke out into random chortle-fits now, complete with lewd-looking gestures, so he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know.

The rest of the Autobots are still asleep inside, and he wanted to stop only long enough to buy basic supplies. This was a rougher port, and it wasn’t safe to linger. Fortunately there was a large market square within walking distance, and it wasn’t long before he found everything he needed.

Thankfully the good-natured merchants tolerated his hapless gestures and waving servos.

It helped that his pay card settled most confusions with a minimum of fuss. His trailer made for a massive subspace, and he began filling it with basic medical supplies and various hardy forms of energon; bars and sticks and anything else easy to stash away. He wiped out fuel and oil supplies in stall after stall until the merchants started excitedly waving him over, guiding him to more sellers as they all knew each other.

Optimus left the last stall and then faltered.

Unbalanced, he limped over and leaned against a wall for a long moment. As soon as he was able, he staggered over to a bench to rest. He stayed still and quiet while waiting for his equilibrium to return and watched as various species of people bustled around him.

All about him happy and healthy people scurried here and there. Shopping, fueling, chatting, he watched them do all the normal things people do while living sane, normal lives. He wrapped his arms around himself, tracing the soft mesh along his fingers…his entire bare body…in anxious patterns while struggling to pull in enough air through his intakes.

 _Another panic attack,_ Optimus realized and closed his optics. He focused on his ventilations to settle himself. _I am safe and all is well_ … but the desire to flee and hide was difficult to ignore. Almost as if his carrier coding was picking up on something the upper layers of his mind had yet to perceive.

But the sun smiling down upon him remained warm and kindly, and after long moments of rest and quiet, he relaxed. Around him and swirling were tiny wisps of fluff, the seeds of some happy, growing thing. With his blurry vision, their floating filled the air with a dreamlike quality as they danced on warm currents of wind.

_I should return to the others now. Maybe I will coax them out for a little walk…the sunshine and open sky may do them some good._

He sucked in a deep vent of sweet air. Then he positioned his pedes beneath him to stand when a ghost-touch across his inner abdominals had him sitting back. He blinked and looked down at himself.  His status shouldn’t be so obvious yet, as his outer plating would have kept things a little more…contained… for some time. But with only his soft mesh left to him, the gestation tank was much closer to the surface of his body then it should ever be.

He felt movement again, and he poked at the spot curiously, and after a moment there was an answering butterfly-light touch from within. He huffed softly, a flicker of amusement escaping his spark, and he tapped at himself again.

Once more there was an answer, the touch stronger this time.

A small smile crept across his face plates, and he moved his hand a few microns, and tapped in another spot. _Here I am._ Kliks later and another touch answered him – _found you!_ – in the new spot and another pulse of amusement from his spark. Distracted, he played his little game with the unborn as all the sorrows of the greater world fell away.

A female Banik strode past with a youngster in tow, but skidded to a halt when she saw him and recognized him for what he was…a Cybertronian. Noting the source of his distraction and the tale-tell bump extending his lower abdominals, her worried expression eased.

A member of a gregarious species with personal space issues, she walked toward him as if they were old friends, even as he saw her coming and tried not to engage her. She hesitated and pulled her youngster closer, but her large doe-eyes kept focusing on his lower frame. The belly seemed to sway her, and she stepped towards him again.

"Greetings unto you?"

Optimus didn't understand her and tried to look away, but she chattered at him insistently.

"Endless pardons... but are you Cybertronian?"

Optimus hesitated as he looked into her apprehensive face, not even recognizing the name of his own species. He gestured at his intakes to try to explain he couldn't speak and didn't understand her and _please go away_.

"You _are_ Cybertronian. Your face tells me so."

She peered down the street for a long moment and long ears swiveled forward. She seemed to see something she didn’t like and they dropped back flat against her head and she looked back, considering him with wide, kind eyes. She knelt down before him and gently touched his abdominals. She pulled back when he startled for the touch and then she began speaking in urgent tones.

"You must go _now_. The Galactic Council has been arresting Cybertronians. Arresting all they can find and here you are sitting in the open and _reported you_ _by now_ someone surely has! You are not safe here."

But Optimus merely shook his helm in confusion, even as she became frantic in her attempts to explain something to him. Unnerved for her concern, he struggled to his pedes and started walking back towards the ship docks, leaving her staring after him in distress.

Worried now, a queer sense of wrongness finally came to his attention. His new carrier instincts twisted within him, enhancing the warning. With his vision damaged, even while paying attention it took some time for him to notice, but people kept pointing at him and muttering to each other. He didn’t look particularly Cybertronian right now, but his face plates gave him away.

A metalloid, insect-like creature snapped open a small communicator as he passed and garbled something into it.

 _That Banik was trying to warn me of this,_ Optimus realized. _Something is wrong._ He hurried away on bare, clumsy pedes. He made it back to the ship docks, but the dock-warden approached him. He tried to avoid the creature, but it stepped into his path and thrust itself into his personal space. It gestured at the egg-shaped ship and back to Optimus.

“Do you own the vessel docked in space VA-312?”

Optimus hesitated, replying to the gibberish with a click. _Not this slag again._ He pulled out his pay card with an abrupt motion, then grew further irritated when the creature batted his servo away. _What do you want…?  
_

The official stepped forward and repeated itself, its gaze harsh and tone even harsher.

Optimus straightened and stepped back a pace in mild alarm for the look of the creature crowding him. He didn’t want trouble. He couldn’t afford trouble and he can’t understand a damn thing this unpleasant being was saying to him.

“You can't come through here. There’s a problem with the docking platform due to a radiation spill.”

Optimus frowned, still making no sense of the foreign noises and gestures. All he knew for certain was the alien sounded anxious and hostile. _I can’t deal with this._ He clicked again, moving as if to go around the irritating creature.

The dock-warden stepped in his way. “We can’t complete cleanup and repairs until the next cycle. Due to safety issues with the liquescent, we need all mechanical races to remain off the docks until cleanup is complete.”

Optimus frowned, and gestured at himself and pointed at the ship.

“Are you deaf, mech?” The official demanded, growing more belligerent. “You cannot remain here and you cannot leave yet. Now gather yourself and any others on board your ship and head towards that clearing.”

It pointed towards a large clearing in the distance, the entrance to the city proper, now curiously devoid of people.

Optimus stared at him, still not understanding.

The exasperated dock-warden finally grumbled and raised its pincers in defeat. It handed Optimus a small pad with instructions he couldn't read, pre-loaded with directions that wouldn’t help him in the slightest, and then turned and stormed off.

Optimus squinted after the retreating alien and sighed. _At least that is over._

He started back towards the ship with a returning sense of foreboding, even as a special combat unit arrived a block away. They began mobilizing in response to the dock-warden’s frantic confirmation to local authorities: Cybertronians are confirmed present at the space dock and no, it couldn’t herd them towards the capture area.

Optimus was halfway up the ship’s ramp when they overwhelmed him.

 

* * *

 

Megatron’s knee joint collapsed out from under him and he tumbled backwards.

Megatron couldn’t recover fast enough for the severe damage to his chest plates and he couldn’t get back up on his pedes. Gasping in pain and amazement for his complete failure, he choked out what sounded like a denial.

Overlord loomed above him, looking _sick_ with delight. "I've been waiting for today for so long," he began his victory speech. He reached for the defeated Megatron with eager, grasping servos.

"Attack!" Onslaught shouted.

The Constructicons charged forward as the Combaticons merged. The rest also chose to fight and were right behind them as Snarl transformed into dyno-mode and then a deep rumbling roar **“Bruticus destroy!”** rolled like thunder and the one-armed Bruticus stomped forward to join the fray.

Overlord froze mid-grasp at the charging mass, surprised for the interruption. It was entirely un-Decepticon of them. "Decepticons," he called to them reproachfully. "I would strongly advise not interfering with the natural order of–"

Long Haul's fist silenced him. The heavy hauler punched Overlord in his face plates as Mixmaster tackled him head-on shouting, “Bust his fragging face!” while the rest of the Constructicons and Bruticus smashed into Overlord in a roaring wall of violence.

“We are _Cybertronians!_ ” Thundercracker yelled from somewhere in the mass.

Meanwhile, Hook gathered up the already unconscious Megatron, leaving a fluid trail as he pulled him back and away.

Bruticus took the lead, battered Overlord, every swing of his fist a brutal hit.

But Overlord was still grinning. He flung the lesser heavy weights off him as if they were nothing more than badly-behaved turbo hounds. He answered every attack with a brutal counterstrike. Fresh internal fluid began to coat the courtyard’s older layers. He’d been a monster before but now his ununtrium coating made him all but unstoppable.

Overlord sent them flying in all directions even as Bruticus’ massive fist exploded into his face plates yet again. Bruticus dented him and sent him falling back and his internal fluid spilled past his intakes. But he was right back up and his smile remained and he merrily stood up to Bruticus’ best hit and he was _still_ laughing.

Bruticus began to take damage. 

Long association meant Overlord knew right where and how to hit him. Every movement was powerful and measured and even playful. Bruticus began to buckle under the assault. Then one particularly ferocious hit had the Combaticons tumbling back into their smaller forms.

“Too strong,” Onslaught gasped.

“Sweet talk will get you nowhere, but _please_ feel free to carry on!” Overlord beamed down at him. “I am partial to pointless begging as well.”

Onslaught dragged himself back up on his pedes because if he was going to die today it sure as frag wouldn’t be on his knees. He saw his team all struggle to do the same and he felt a burst of pride from his spark and he was so _damned_ proud of them.

Overlord was looming over him and just about to offer another one-liner, but froze when he saw what Hook was up to. Suddenly all amusement drained from his face. He lunged after Megatron.

"He’s _mine_!" Overlord howled in outrage.

His gang rushed forward then, galvanized into action by his outraged howl, their feverish prayers left unanswered.

Overlord almost reached Megatron, but Snarl got in the way. He reared up and freighted forward as if to head-butt him, but instead whipped around at the last instant and smashed Overlord back with his thick tail. The unexpected hit sent Overlord flying, crashing into his own gang and tumbling headfirst into a far wall.

The Combaticons had already reformed on Onslaught, and they provided a crude phalanx while the rest of the fighters reorganized and reformed behind that oh-so-brief reprieve.

Unfortunately Overlord’s mechs have the home advantage.

For all Megatron’s bluster, his soldiers are severely outnumbered. The large courtyard remained sealed off and they had nowhere to retreat to. They began to lose ground immediately. They found themselves pinned back against the furthest cave of cells, trapped between the raging gang members and the odd, buzzing energy shield.

Overlord himself stood back, fists splattered with internal fluid, hands on his hips with a wide smile. He was certain the game was his and now he seemed in no great hurry. His new toys had nowhere to go and he was clearly enjoying the fight.

 “Oi! New mechs! Fly the friendly!”

A rusty mech shouted from behind them, waving them towards a break in the crude bulwark. Onslaught blinked as he recognized the species, a ratter-tatter mess of parts called a Junkion.  

Deactivating the ratty-looking energy shield generator, the Junkion waved them in, gesturing frantically for them to hurry. The besieged Cybertronians and last surviving alien mechs needed no further urging. They withdrew through it and the energy shield reactivated after the last mech fled inside.

Only Overlord’s shocked roar chased after them.

 

* * *

 

"Go on inside, all of you."

The local constabularies herded the Autobots into a holding cell. The haggard-looking carrying mechs were slow to obey, confused for what was happening, but the lawmen remained patient with them.

Once inside, Optimus rumbled in displeasure when the cell closed, though they didn't electrify the bars. The lawman hesitated and then he called for fuel for them.

The Autobots stayed close together while trying to make sense of their situation. An unconscious Ratchet was resting on Optimus' right hip, while Bumblebee was nestled in his sling across his back, and he was loath to put them either of them down.

The constable returned with some energon, and spoke quietly to them from outside the cell. Optimus didn't understand the words, but he recognized the kindness in the organic’s eyes. What worried him was the apprehensive way the constable lingered and watched them after passing them cups of fuel through the bars.

Optimus took the cups and nodded, and then doled them out. They drank and fed their dreaming companions, and then the constable walked away. Optimus watched as down the hall the constable and another organic, likely his supervisor, got into a noisy argument.

“–contacted by a refugee center looking for them. The coordinator is even offering to come get them! They haven’t _done_ anything! _Look_ at them! This is unnecessary!”

“It’s out of my hands. The Galactic Council knows we have them and their peacekeeping forces already arranged transport–”

“–not right! It’s not right! You can’t just roll over for their bullying!”

“I don’t make the laws, _constable_. I just enforce them.”

“This isn’t what I signed on for–”

Optimus stared as the constable kept pointing back towards them and several times made a motion as if cupping a belly and he wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. Finally the two strode away, still arguing hotly.

Perceptor waved at Optimus to catch his attention. _Maybe they are mad we docked here without permission?_   It took five astro-seconds of random gestures before they could figure out what he meant. He'd only recently recovered enough to try and play their little game of spastic charades.

Optimus frowned. _I paid them._ Pulling out his pay card, he pointed at it, and made a sharp pointing gesture for _them_.

Jazz shrugged and stepped away, walking towards the far cell wall. He eased Prowl from across his aching shoulders and settled him down into a sleeping position, mindful of his still healing cuts.

Optimus sighed and followed his example. Kneeling, he laid Ratchet out next to Prowl and stepped back, rolling his shoulders. Sitting down next to Ratchet, he pulled Bumblebee’s sling around to rest against his chest. He wouldn’t put ‘Bee down, not even when the others begged to hold him. Instead he leaned back and rested with the little mech against his chest plates and watched over the others protectively.

Meanwhile, Perceptor poked at Wheeljack, urging him to continue removing the Quint tech still covering his body. He started up again, the work agonizingly slow for how exhausted the engineer tended to get after any sustained effort.

But Wheeljack gamely started digging out the random connection tubes and wires, a smile of concentration across his face plates as he was happy to be of help.

 

* * *

 

_Fzzst! Fzzst! Fzzst!_

Breakdown watched as Overlord pounded the energy shield, smashing his fists into it over and over. With each hit the shield buzzed in ominous complaint. He stared as it puffed and wheezed smoke. It was the only thing standing between them and vile, gruesome death and it was complaining like Dragstrip at halftime.

_Fzzst! Fzzst! Fzzst!_

“What _is_ this?” Overlord finally paused his pummeling to laugh. “Decepticons! I have defeated Mighty Megatron in combat! Lower this shield and submit to your new leader!”

“The _frag_ we will!” Onslaught’s shout was harsh and disdainful.

Overlord thundered out his disapproval. “Loyalty for a defeated ex-leader? Really now! It is conduct most unbecoming of Decepticons!”

"Eat slag and _die_ , batcher-fragger!" Sunstreaker yelled back.

Breakdown stared at Overlord, who merely sighed to himself in mild exasperation. Breakdown was close enough to hear the ex-general chuckling to himself… “–even came pre-collared for my convenience! How considerate! _”..._ and Breakdown tugged at his own collar with shaking fingers. _Primus_ he missed his brothers. Anxiety peaking, he turned around to look for Megatron, tripping over mounds of trash piled everywhere.

 _Junkions love a good mess,_ Breakdown grumbled as he kicked through the trash and headed across the small communal area (‘the Commons’ as the Junkions called it) to stand a little closer to his leader.

The sight did little to provide any reassurance, however.

Megatron was still unconscious, and the Constructicons remained hunched over him, struggling with repairs. They had cleared away the trash around him and the work was slow going with only the crudest implements at their disposal. Their new hosts had little to offer beyond basic protection. Protection was more than plenty though as the hits kept coming to the questionable-looking shield generator.

Breakdown heard the Junkion leader mutter to one of his mechs, “Torture King, should’ve stopped his swings, attacks now never-ending?” The other mess of parts agreed, “when you care enough… to send the very best,” while sharing his leader’s scowl.

The Junkion leader stepped closer to the Constructicons, calling for them to get Megatron up off the grating. They ignored him, and then the shield generator fell quiet again.

“Decepticons!” Overlord stepped back and threw his servos out wide, palms up and beseeching. “Accept me as your new leader and I will show you mercy. I desire only Megatron! Give me what I want and I will spare you.”

Long Haul stepped forward. “No one wants to see you in power. This shield stays up.”

"Let me rephrase my offer then," Overlord laughed back. "The first mech that disables this shield earns a pardon and gets to _live_."

Brawl raised his fists threateningly, "Ain't no one here stupid enough to believe _that!_ "

It was a true statement. No one suffered any delusions over what serving under Overlord would amount to. Several Decepticons had made it back to the army proper after surviving Overlord's three year rule over Garrus-9. Their horror stories had spread like wildfire throughout the rank and file. From the crazed look of the surviving gang members and the charming décor around them, the stories were all true. Worried out of his processor, Breakdown sought out the only mech he wanted to see anymore.

Sunstreaker was standing off to the side, watching Overlord’s theatrics with a dark scowl while a fight was brewing in the background, old animosities trying to flare.

“Like you _didn’t know_ he was a total whack job,” one of the former Autobots yelled.

Some former Decepticon shouted back, “He wasn’t like that to any of us!”

“Yeah, wow, thanks for _that_ –”

**CRAAACK-BOOOOOOOM!**

“Throttle down!” Thundercracker shouted as his signature ability put the last word to the useless arguing. The infighting quieted as everybody was too busy rubbing at their helms to further threaten group harmony.

Breakdown ignored the mild ringing in his audials and walked over and stood next to Sunstreaker, expression carefully nonchalant. _Can I stick with you?_ The words almost escaped his lip plating but he stopped himself. He knew better; far safer to assume and take rather than to ask and risk rejection... always better to beg forgiveness then to ask for permission.

Sunstreaker glanced over at him, optics raked over the other, his gaze cold and harsh. But he looked away almost immediately, returned his attention back towards the energy shield. His handsome jaw tightened as the beleaguered device coughed out puffs of smoke and sparks. The device’s constant whining intensified as Overlord returned to battering it.

But when Sunstreaker didn't try to drive him away or stare at him too long, Breakdown took a deep in-vent and decided to take a risk.

 

* * *

 

At the front of the cell, Sideswipe was pacing like some wild thing. Of all of them, his skinny protoform was the most battered. If Prowl had taken the worst of the mental damage, Sideswipe had taken the lion's share of the physical.

Sideswipe heard clicking and ignored it, continuing to pace. But the sound grew insistent, and he turned to see Prime was clicking at him, watching his movements with concern.

Prime beckoned and pointed to the open spot next to him. _You should get some rest._

 _I can rest when I'm dead,_ Sideswipe made a harsh, slicing gesture across his neck cabling in answer and continued to pace. He didn’t want to rest. The shock-haze was slowly fading from his mind and he was coming back to himself. The peaceful, restful days were restoring him and he grew steadily more worried about his brother. He couldn't feel the spark bond anymore and it was a source of deep anxiety.

He knew Sunny was still alive, or at least he had been at the time the bond shattered…the stripping process had flat-lined him several times for shock. In truth he was almost relieved the bond had snapped; it meant Sunny hadn't suffered the full process as he had. He hadn’t shared the immediate aftermath either.

As much as he missed his brother, Sideswipe was grateful Sunstreaker was free of him. But _oh_ how he worried. He brooded and paced relentlessly until the sound of insistent finger snapping caught his attention; Wheeljack was trying to get Perceptor to hold still.

Wheeljack was worrying out something lodged in Perceptor’s manual fuel intake, and it was delicate work. The scientist was squirming, and the engineer wasn't impressed.  He smacked the other mech lightly across his bare aft – _thwack!_ – and Sideswipe couldn’t help but huff in amusement.

Finally 'Jack managed to dig out the mangled tubal connector. Perceptor sighed with relief and then turned and made a questioning gesture, pointing downward.

Sideswipe’s servo pressed down to his own miserable valve and he stepped forward, movements aggressive, and pointed at himself. He had no panels to retract as his intimate ports were bare and exposed like the rest of them.

 _Get it out,_ Sideswipe gestured at the apparatus. _Want it out **now** , _and he waved at ‘Jack with a feverish glint in his optics. He knew he was being selfish as Perceptor was being worked on right now, but he couldn’t help it. More than anything he _needed_ this thing out of him.

Sideswipe saw Prime and Jazz both perk up, as they all felt as he did. Now everyone was looking over at the engineer with hopeful optics.

But Wheeljack could only offer them a kicked-puppy look. He pointed at the tubes and collars and other ripped connectors, and made a motion for _I can remove these_. Then he pointed at his own valve and made an unhappy gesture, _but not these._.. and then he pointed at Ratchet.

His meaning was clear, though the disappointment was palatable.

Sideswipe scowled down at the miserable apparatus still lodged in his valve. It looked nothing short of some sort of medieval torture device, and he grew more and more aggravated with the Quint devices and wires and tube connectors in his body. He started scratching at them.

More finger-snapping interrupted his efforts, and Wheeljack motioned him over. _Don't, don't! You will hurt yourself. Come here, let me._

Sideswipe hesitated. He gave one of the clamped tubes a last tug and then stepped closer. He allowed himself to be pulled down in front of the engineer as Perceptor stepped back, willing to wait so that the aggressive twin could be soothed.

 

* * *

 

Onslaught was alternating between frowning over the Constructicon's shoulders at Megatron's repairs and glowering at Overlord. He was sore everywhere, but he would live. Maybe.

_Fzzst! Fzzst! Fzzst!_

He couldn't believe the rickety energy shield was still holding. Joors after the disastrous battle and although its complaints remained almighty, the damned thing was still holding Overlord at bay. It was nothing short of a miracle from Primus. Hell, if the shield stayed up for the rest of whatever passed for a cycle on this pyre of a planetoid, he might have to _convert._

“Want to share a room?” Onslaught overheard Breakdown ask Sunstreaker and he glanced at them from over his shoulder.

“I heard them say nobody sleeps alone for safety. There’s a ton of empty rooms down in the Bailiwick.”

“The _what_?”

“The cave. Over there. It’s where all the rooms are, or cells I guess, they call them rooms but they are really just converted cells and… _I don’t_ _know!..._ they just call it that, crazy fraggers probably just like the _sound_ , alright?!”

“Room with _you_?”

Onslaught grunted with relief when Sunstreaker snorted but agreed after a few moments’ hesitation. Sunstreaker’s "fine, _whatever_ " was spat with a derisive tone, but it did nothing to dampen Breakdown’s delighted grin.

“Somebody yell for me if this stupid aft-licker busts through,” Sunstreaker shouted. After making an obscene gesture at Overlord, he strode away with Breakdown following after him like a love-sick puppy.

"This slag-hole better have working showers _._ " Sunstreaker's less than dulcet tones faded as they vanished down into the dark recesses of the Bailiwick.

Behind Onslaught, Swindle grinned after the vain Lambos. “Oh _please_ can I be the one to break the bad news to them?”

Onslaught grunted.

 _At least that’s one irritation off my plate._ Onslaught was sick and tired of punching the irritating Stunticon out of his personal space and it wasn’t as if he was lacking in the monumental pain in the aft department alrea _–_

“Hey Onslaught!” Brawl piped up behind him. “You got a plan for this bozo yet?”

“Working on it,” Onslaught crossed his arms over his chest plates, warming up his tactical processors while mentally tackling the problem.

On the other side of the barricade, the pounding on the energy shield continued with gusto.

 

* * *

 

Megatron came back online to sharp, stabbing pain and the sounds of distant arguing. His optics slowly focused on Long Haul and Hook leaning over him mid-surgery, their dour faces welcoming him back to consciousness.

It was a far better sight then could be expected. He had on-lined fully expecting to be greeted by a triumphant Overlord while trapped within any number of creative torture scenarios.

Instead, he listened tersely as they brought him up to speed while continuing to work on him. Not far away, he could hear Overlord pounding away at the energy shield, and he swallowed the thickening internal fluid in his mouth with a grimace.

 _They are repairing me even after I lost so utterly,_ Megatron realized and that surprised to him. He was further amazed when Long Haul said nothing about the disastrous fight and his humiliating failure. The noisy argument in the distance provided a badly needed distraction as Hook continued his very painful and very necessary ministrations.

Nearby, Skywarp didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. “So you’re saying the sun only goes down for a few joors?”

The Junkion he was arguing with jabbered something in his sing-song tones, but his meaning was lost for all the rhymes and double-speak slogans.

“You mean I _shouldn’t_ go out for a quick flight, then?” Skywarp’s cooling fans were blasting full strength, working constantly to keep him cool enough to function comfortably.

And that was deep underground.

Megatron’s own vents were blasting out excess heat. He listened carefully as their new hosts assured a frowning Thundercracker and a spark-broken Skywarp that the murderous star would not remain down for long.  Flying out for anything more than a few astro-seconds of scouting would be a disaster.

Apparently as the dying sun dipped behind the shadow of a vast mountain range in the distance, it provided a short reprieve from the oppressive heat. They couldn't see the sky above for the sunken hole they now inhabited, but the light burning down from the hole in the ceiling _was_ growing dimmer for the retreating star.

As Megatron focused on remaining still for Hook, he slowly became aware of a tense pair of golden optics watching him.

The Junkion leader had identified the prone mech as the leader of the Cybertronians and was watching him intently, though he remained at a respectful distance for the surgery. His fingers were clamped tightly around a powerful energy-spear, the pointy end glowing and crackling. He glanced over the new arrivals with a calculating expression, and then urged them to get Megatron up off the grating.

Hook scowled, glaring over his shoulder at the pushy walking scrap-pile and snorted. He returned his attention to his work, much to Megatron’s intense discomfort.

Megatron swallowed thickly and endured.

 

* * *

 

Optimus and Jazz watched as 'Jack slowly plucked at the broken tubules and foreign wires within Sideswipe’s frame with deft, clever fingers.

 _Thank you for that,_ Optimus waved at Perceptor in appreciation for his kind-sparked patience. Perceptor smiled and then Optimus and Jazz resumed gesturing at each other, trying to come up with some sort of escape plan. A moment later Perceptor joined them.

They were deep into the opening credits of _Charades: The Great Escape_ when a visitor arrived.

Optimus got to his pedes in a hurry and strode over as a local official stood in front of their cell. He began to read from some sort of data pad. Optimus tried to motion at the alien that he couldn't understand, but the creature ignored him. As soon as he finished prattling he turned and left, obligations fulfilled to the bare minimum required.

Optimus punched the wall in frustration and Jazz clicked at him until he looked over at the saboteur.

  _At least we are all still together,_ Jazz made a circle with his fingers, encompassing them all and then squeezing his fist for _together._

Wheeljack and Perceptor both nodded agreement, and then the engineer made a triumphant noise as he managed to work a particularly irritating connector ring out of Sideswipe’s medical port, the twin echoing his delighted noise as the miserable thing fell away. 

No matter what was coming, at least they were still free of the Quintesson.

Optimus relaxed a little, mood lifting for the saboteur's cheery presence and Sideswipe’s happy clicks as he rubbed at his freed medical port with relief. Jazz always saw a bright side, even if so often Optimus couldn’t see it.

Across his chest, Bumblebee nuzzled a little closer.

Soon they were back to planning an escape when joors later they were gathered again, and loaded onto a ground transport vehicle without any fanfare.

 _Where are they taking us?_ Perceptor wanted to know.

Optimus had no answers to offer. Driven through the same docking area, he watched warily as they headed towards the hulking silver monstrosity he had seen before.

 _I think we are headed there,_ Optimus pointed at the massive ship, and sure enough the ground vehicle took the turn for that dock.

Then Wheeljack waved at them and pointed. Optimus couldn’t make out the details, but staring at the blurry shape the others were looking at, he finally made out their little egg-ship. He sighed then, a low and unhappy rumble.

 _Pod was too small anyway,_ Jazz motioned after catching his look. _Don’t worry boss-bot, we will think of something._

Optimus nodded, comforted by Jazz’s endless cheer. He loomed protectively over the others, keeping them close for the bumpy ride. He watched as the vehicle made a bee-line through the masses of dock workers and supply ferries towards the massive ship, and then up the ramp and inside the Mauler transport.

 

* * *

 

Evening arrived as the Cybertronians settled into their new home, and a near-darkness fell over the penitentiary. Cooling fans began to tick lower as the temperatures dropped below broiling (though what counted for uncomfortable for the metal races would instantly cook organic species).

Megatron remained on his back plates as Hook was finally finishing his work. Struggling not to squirm, he only barely managed to hold still enough for the surgeon, not wanting to be held down as offered by the other Constructicons.

Overlord had finally given up and instead returned his attention to the poor wretches still trapped on the wrong side of the energy shield.

 _Which would be either side at this point,_ Megatron realized, barely stifling a moan when Hook soldered along his damaged internals, closing up his cockpit.

Only a few astro-seconds ago a rough-looking Junkion had asked Onslaught about the various alien mechs standing around in worried groups and he had just shrugged. “We are not with any of _them_.”

The Junkions had taken that as permission, and shortly thereafter, of the newcomers only the Cybertronians remained alive. Most of the Cybertronians had been down in the Bailiwick quarreling over cell-rooms, and by the time they returned to investigate the racket, the various species of Lithonians, Regulons, and other mechanoids were already dispatched.

Now everyone was standing around the Commons, staring at the resulting mess.

“All you mechs need _Primus_!” Pipes yelled from the mass of shocked Cybertronians, staring wide-eyed at the aftermath of the swift and bloody cull.

The Junkion leader just answered that with a harsh, hyena-laugh and then returned his attention back towards Megatron, still waiting patiently for the rough surgery to be finished. He would only speak with the Cybertronian leader, and once again he called for them to get the patient off the grating.

There was a _wharp_ sound, and Skywarp materialized next to Thundercracker with a wide grin. “Guess what I just got work…ing… oh _hey_ , what the frag?”

“This counts for normal, then.” Thundercracker mumbled while clapping Skywarp on the shoulder in a distracted congratulatory greeting, the ugly truth sinking in like a deep plasma burn.

Thundercracker didn’t remove his hand, even when Skywarp tugged at it irritably. _Stop freaking out over me,_ Skywarp flicked in wing-speak, and only then did TC release him.

The Junkion nodded and asked “Where’s the beef?” and then grinned and gestured nastily at Overlord’s gang in answer to his own question. For their part, the gang members were scowling back. The bodies being stacked into piles should have been on _their_ plates, and they weren’t happy about the loss of menu options.

The Junkion just shrugged at both seekers’ shared look of dismay. “It’s finger lickin’ good!” another walking trash-heap called out in assurance, but from the quivering tone of his sing-song voice, it was far from the truth.

Several Junkions were hovering over the working ones, watching the snicker-snack of rusty cutting tools reducing once sentient beings to edible parts. Another one dumped the parts into a crude grinder, the resulting mess poured into a boiling cauldron (no fire needed) for a hearty stew. They looked eager for the coming meal.

“Melts in your _mouth,_ not in your hand!” The larger one remarked to the other, while his friend nodded back enthusiastically. “We do chicken _right_!”

“I know that one!” Brawl yelled from across the Commons. “Have it your way!”

The Junkions instantly fell silent. One of them tittered nervously while the others eyed each other in a _can’t be saying that sort of thing out loud_ kind of way.

Brawl blinked. “What’d I say?”

“Stop torquing off the bloody cannibals, Brawl!” Vortex yelled back.

Megatron stared at the surreal scene and then closed his optics. Hook finally finished sealing the last of the damaged tubing and began welding the outer chest wounds closed. He swallowed as his fuel tanks were roiling beneath the pain of repairs. He had seen plenty of death and dismemberment over his long life, but this was worse. Apparently he was going to be _eating_ these bodies.

Rescue was an illusion here, unless one had the strength to stand up to a gang of starving Junkions. Or worse, Overlord's merry band of lunatics.

…

Long Haul stepped closer to Megatron. "How are you feeling sir?"

"Alive," was Megatron’s terse answer.

Long Haul watched him swallow around his pain, but then he gave the Constructicon leader a brisk nod of approval.

The energy shield grumbled and belched sparks, and Megatron turned his attention towards the unhappy device with a frown. Their leader had a lot to think about, and irrelevant, ancient history didn't even cross his processor.

Long Haul shared a side glance with Mixmaster. _Looks like we are forgiven then,_ he subtly signed at Mix and both hulking mechs relaxed, heavy plating sliding closer to underlying protoform mesh as long-held tension eased.

“What the _slag_?!”

Both Constructicons whirled at the shout.

Ion Storm was clutching at a small wound in his pede, internal fluid leaking between his clutching fingers.

“Something just slagging _bit_ me!”

A small chunk of his metal flesh was missing, and he stabbed furiously at the grating beneath him. There was a flash of darkness, and an impression of greasy metal as something darted away.

“Watch out for the Rat,” one of the ratter-tatter mechs called out. The other Junkions laughed, pointing at their own legs and hands, and the reason for all the missing chunks of flesh became clear.

The Junkion leader snorted. "Reach out… and touch someone.” One of his junk-mechs hooted back at him, and he smiled wryly.

"No one sleeps alone!" Another junk-pile mech shouted at the newcomers in standard galactic, showing off his finger-less servo. "He likes the soft bits! Sometimes you wake up with no fingers! Sometimes no optics! We running out of spare optics! _No one sleeps alone!"_

Off to the side, the Junkion leader continued to urge them to get Megatron up off the grating. Suddenly his insistent warnings made far more sense.

Mixmaster and Long Haul glanced at each other and shared a grimace of disgust.

“How delightful,” Hook muttered while scowling down at the grating beneath his pedes, optics narrowed with suspicion. “This little resort keeps getting better and better.”

Long Haul stepped forward. “We can spread out a tarp _–_ ”

“No need. I’m done,” Hook announced, and got to his pedes, stretching his legs. “Your self-repair should take care of the rest.” He looked down and then offered Megatron a servo up in afterthought.

…

 

Megatron waved Hook away and climbed back to his pedes on his own. He was shaky but restored, though a deep scowl remained etched across his face.

Worse than the residual pain of crude repairs was his shame; the battle had been a complete fiasco. Defeat he could deal with, but what Overlord had handed him wasn't defeat ... thanks to his low energy levels and wrecked knee, he'd been utterly _trounced._ Because old habits tended to die hard, the instant his pedes stabilized beneath him, Megatron prepared to fight for his life.

But the expected challenge to his leadership never materialized.

As he searched the crowd for his first challenger, Megatron was surprised to find only hopeful red and blue optics peering back at him instead of the sharkticon-grins he was expecting. He surveyed the thirty-sum group of mechs he now considered his own, and something deep inside him relaxed.

As soon as Megatron regained his pedes and stood steady, the Junkion leader responsible for their survival finally strode forward to introduce himself.

“Name is Wreck-Gar, leader of this lot!” The lanky mechanical declared, speaking a mish-mash dialect in a strange, lilting accent. He threw out his servo in a friendly gesture, offering the formal Junkion greeting. “You're in good hands with Allstate!” A long moment of silence ensued and his golden optics raked over Megatron. Noting the confusion, he switched to standard galactic without missing a beat. “You are Cybertronians, yes?”

“We are,” Megatron answered.

A murmur from the other Junkions broke out around them. “Powerful fighters,” Wreck-Gar remarked. “You have a _reputation_.”

“We do,” Megatron agreed. Behind him the energy shield buzzed; Overlord's minions were throwing scrap again and yelling insults.

“Like a rock! _Ooh_ like a rock!” One of the Junkions shouted out, and the others chattered in agreement.

Megatron listened as Wreck-Gar offered to shelter them in exchange for an alliance. Cramped and filthy, the area they owned looked pathetic, but it was far better than the alternative: gruesome death via Overlord. The bedraggled Junkions were resourceful enough, though they barely held their own due to lack of numbers; to obtain fuel they had to lower the shield during supply drops and fight to harvest some of the newcomers for themselves.

Wreck-Gar assured them that despite its sorry state, the shield generator remained stable and had withstood Overlord’s best attempts to batter it down. At full strength, it had even knocked him out once when he had engaged with it for too long.  Overlord was still made of metal, and his frame remained conductive. High levels of electricity still affected him like any other mech.

“Energy shield’s charge hurts him,” Wreck-Gar assured his new allies, “an’ the Torture King knows his subjects would turn on him if they thought they could win.”

“Understandable,” Megatron said, watching the rival gang members as they loitered in the main courtyard. He noted they all stayed well clear of Overlord’s personal area; apparently as soon as he ran out of new prisoners to torment he would start in on the old ones.

“Proper maniac, that one.” Wreck-Gar added with a frown, his optics re-focusing inward for a moment. Dark, horrific visions burned in the depths.

Megatron considered that. He had to agree with the assessment, even though he knew Overlord was far from mad. Overlord knew exactly what he was doing, and was in full control of himself at all times.

 _Overlord’s gang members only follow his orders because they have no other choice_. _A normal commander would try to build some manner of loyalty in his mechs, but Overlord loves the fear he generates far too much to bother with such efforts._

_I can use that against him._

Megatron’s gaze shifted back to Wreck-Gar, and he noted the tiny shiver along his remaining fingers, and the way his optics flitted here and there. His new co-ruler's visage was one of a hardened survivor, but he also threw a strong sense of _‘not alright’._

Out in the courtyard, someone threw another handful of slag, and the energy field buzzed in endless complaint.

“You are just delaying the inevitable,” one of the rival gang members yelled, optics wide with mania.

A heavily-built Chompazoid roared, “There’s nowhere to hide that Overlord can't break through!”  He paced back and forth on four stout limbs, optics darting like a trapped thing. His words applied as much to him as them, the glyphs carrying an ironic double meaning. He was covered in strange-looking slashes and missing chunks of metal flesh around his pedes.

Megatron, Onslaught, Long Haul, and Thundercracker shared a look.

“Titan-steel and the energy shield hold _him_ back,” Wreck-Gar said quietly. “But not forever.”

 

* * *

 

Overlord's smile remained, even as he burnt his wounds closed. Using a hot blade to close the worst of his injuries, he didn’t even flinch at the sizzle. Megatron had slipped away to safety, but that was a fleeting upset.

 _Relative safety,_ Overlord reminded himself. _It is just a matter of time before he is mine._

Amusement pulsed through him when some of his gang peeked into his guard station-turned-chambers. He noted out of the corner of his optic their disappointment when they realized he would be surviving his wounds. He committed the individual mechs to memory and marked them to die sooner rather than later.

 _Always something to look forward to here,_ he mused. It made captivity in this hellhole bearable. Well, bearable for _him,_ anyway.

He noted a thick splatter of internal fluid on the back of his servo, grinning when he realized it must be from Megatron.

_Oh this is going to be so entertaining!_

Entertainment had been long denied him during his captivity with the Autobots. The Quintesson had been even worse, and he'd made up for lost time with a vengeance. He traced the trickle of internal fluid, a nice thick splatter.

 _Too bad I never got a crack at the Quintessons._ He would have loved to hear what their screams sounded like, but unfortunately he hadn't had the opportunity.

Overlord had been _most_ peeved when he was left in the veritable voltage harness to stew by the wary Quintesson troopers.

After the ID came through, and after much deliberation (complete with extensive complex cost/benefit analysis and much tentacle-wringing) the Quintesson decided he was far too dangerous to their profit margins to keep. There was such a thing as too damned troublesome and Overlord fell well within the category of _do not want_.

And so they signed off on the forms and transferred him to the Maulers.

Thus the Apocalypse arrived to Uytis in the form of Overlord materializing on the penal colony’s platform, still fully bedecked in many various and creative restraints.

The current gang master, an amiable Junkion Lord, had been in control of the prison at that time. He and his fellow colonists were recent victims of the Mauler's mech-phobia and had taken the prison from the previous madcap gang, restoring sanity. He had ordered Overlord released from his bindings against his consort's wishes, confused as to why they had bothered to bind him in the first place.

All previous mecha dumped here were unbound...and generally reasonable. The unreasonable ones were fuel…

That confusion lasted for roughly one klik after Overlord clambered to his pedes, rubbing his sore wrists and smiling oh-so-cheerfully down at his host.

Overlord promptly supplanted him as leader, leaving him alive to mourn his consort, and set about cleaning house. He remained in control of the penitentiary ever since. Life went from metaphorical hell to literal hell for the survivors, and remained there ever since.

Escape seemed unlikely, as even Overlord had to respect his betters; the murderous star looming overhead was a class of killer well beyond even his lofty aspirations. Fortunately for him, new toys were routinely dumped into his little playpen, and thus life here was not without its upsides.

Now that Megatron was within reach...well, suffice to say he should _never_ be this happy to be trapped at the aft-end of space. He’d won their bout and this was just the beginning. He knew the awe-struck terror he craved would come later, as would the squirming, the begging, and the screaming.

He was so looking forward to it.

 _Let the games begin…_ and Overlord grinned as he licked Megatron’s internal fluid from his servos, savoring the taste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (WARNING: Possible MTMTE #52 SPOILERS) The big reveal seems so much smaller after MTMTE #52, and its funny because as wildly happy as I am to see you-know-who show up right before that thing was about to happen and do-that-thing and then the look on his _face_ when...*spastic twitches of glee*...I love MTMTE so much. But I have to do a *headdesk* because I picked him as a big bad specifically because I thought he was safely dead. Ah, well. :D


	10. Desolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Overlord is reunited with an old…enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** This story can get very dark, and please be aware of that. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :) 
> 
> Written to Thomas Bergersen’s instrumental – “Empire of Angels”

On the _Retribution_ , the days blended into the nights as the Autobots mostly slept during the long journey. Someone in the Mauler’s guard station had taken an unusual amount of pity on them. They were placed in solitary, though the Autobots didn’t recognize the dark, quiet cell (separate from all other prisoners) for the mercy it was.

Further accommodations on board the _Retribution_ are nonexistent. The fuel provided would have been inadequate, but Optimus slipped them energon from his massive stash. Fuel tanks stayed nice and full, and they remained comfortable, nestled together for warmth.

Wheeljack especially made good use of the quiet.

During wakeful times, the others pressed close and used their optics as flash lights in the dark while he painstakingly removed the control devices from them. Moods lifted higher and higher with every piece of misery removed from their frames and flung away with prejudice. Finally all but the valve-apparatus was gone, the wretched devices exiled into a far corner.

Wheeljack patted Optimus’ shoulder in congratulations as he was the last one cleared. Optimus offered him an appreciative look and rubbed his free mesh, but then looked downward. The valve connector still squatted in his valve, a hated occupier, and he pointed down at the vile mass.

_Can you try?_

Everyone perked up in an instant, but Optimus waved them back. He didn't want to put Wheeljack on the spot. But Wheeljack still winced with worry. He started waving his hands around in nervous motions, but Optimus calmed him, catching his servos and offering assurance. _I won’t be upset if you can’t._

The others waved in excited agreement. _You can do it 'Jack! Come on! Just do it!_

Optimus released Wheeljack’s hands to touch his own encouraging smile with a finger. Then he tapped beneath his nasal sensor for _stiff upper lip._

Wheeljack sighed and then nodded, as Optimus leaned back to keep his abdominals from getting in the way. Kneeling down, ‘Jack began to poke around the device. He felt around the unhappy valve rim and could feel the complaining calipers trembling. He tested the give as Optimus watched him poke and prod with hopeful optics.

Everyone leaned forward to watch and spotlight the troubled area for 'Jack. They were all so used to functioning without privacy panels that no one, even Optimus, thought much of it.

But just as Wheeljack feared, the complex, alarming-looking device was far too interconnected. He was too worried he might trigger something and cause more harm. He was unwilling to just _give it a go_ , like they all wanted him to, and their faith in him as a miracle worker was as touching as it was frustrating. It was as if they had all forgotten how many of his devices and experiments ended in epic explosions.

Finally he sat back. He raised his empty servos at Optimus and the kicked-puppy expression crept back across his face. His fingers moved in hesitant apologies, and then he pointed at Ratchet.

Optimus was careful to keep his disappointment from showing and just nodded in understanding. He reached out and stilled the other’s hands with his own. _How long until Ratchet wakes up?_ He pointed at Ratchet and mimed opening his optics.

Wheeljack could only shrug. _Whenever he does. Today, tomorrow… whenever his body decides it has repaired all it can._

Optimus didn’t understand all of that, but he caught the general idea of _whenever_ and he nodded again, and then clasped Wheeljack’s shoulder with a grateful smile. _We are fortunate to have you._

Wheeljack relaxed and smiled back.

They spent the rest of the journey in a corner opposite of the pile of discarded control devices. The darkness of the cell ended up being beneficial as everyone fell into deep recharge cycles.

Sideswipe and Jazz comprised the outer layer of the cuddle-pile.  The saboteur would wake up off and on to keep an optic on things, with Sideswipe as backup. Optimus was stretched out on the bottom, helping to keeping the rest partially off the cold floor, his comforting electromagnetic fields a bulwark that held bad dreams at bay.

Finally a few days later the cell doors rattled open with a _scree-clang._ Blinking, sleepy blue optics winked on to see several Mauler guards at the ready.

Optimus struggled to his pedes and stepped forward. More than anything he just wanted answers. _Who are you?_ _Why are we here? Where are you taking us?_ He tried to gesture at them, but the largest one shook his head. He stomped a heavy boot in warning, and then pointed down the gray, heavily reinforced corridor.

The threat was very clear.

Optimus rumbled, but he and the others hefted their dreaming companions and secured them with care across their backs and shoulders. For all their intimidation, the guards still waited for them to gather themselves and shuffle out into the hallway. Their patience and restraint for the glacial pace was nothing short of amazing.

Watching the heavily armored Mauler guards escorting them, Optimus did not like the look of their peculiar expressions or the sounds of their quiet arguing. They looked almost shamefaced, and the angry noises coming from further down the corridor was far from reassuring.

After a few cell blocks, the guards stopped walking with them and waved them on. An energy field winked into existence, buzzing like a swarm of angry insects, and forced them onward. Soon they joined up with other prisoners, but one look at them and harsh faces softened. Even the worst of the worst chose to find other targets to quarrel with. The mass of prisoners were driven down the corridor towards a central chamber and the walk ended in a massive room.

Herding his Autobots into a corner, Optimus put himself between them and the agitated crowd. He hovered protectively as there was a bad feeling in the stale air. A massive hum vibrated the floor and the rough crowd grew aggressive.

“What are _these_ doing here?” A Lithonian called out while pointing at them.

Optimus stiffened when several large prisoners approached and blasted gibberish at him. “What’d you do, batchie? Sit on someone?” There were huffs of nervous laughter from nearby mechs.

“Don’t damage them,” some mech threatened from the milling crowd and the large mechanoid snapped back a negative. “Mind your own skid plate, least you lose it. Just moving them into the center, mayhap this goes bad.”

“Query,” an assembly-line construct asked resentfully, “why are _those_ mechanisms so special?”

“Because I _said so_!” The large mechanoid, an egg-laying species, stomped one of his massive tripod legs in emphasis.

Then numerous large, alarming mechs surrounded the Autobots and many graspers and grippers and servos reached for them. Digits splayed and flat, the aliens cajoled them to move. Optimus’ nervous optics darted from mech to mech as he and his little group were herded by the crowd. Confused, he was surprised when the otherwise aggressive alien mechs parted easily for his little group and soon they were at the very center.

Several of the aliens made soft noises at them and Optimus glanced at Jazz from the corner of his optic. _What are they saying?_

Jazz looked up at him and shrugged. _No idea._

Optimus set his pedes. He tried to look as imposing as possible, though it was difficult when so off balanced and essentially bare-bodied. Thankfully Jazz was right behind him, ever the supportive shadow. Staying at his back, Jazz watched the milling crowd with a small, wicked-looking blade peeking from between his fingers.

Meanwhile, Perceptor finished rummaging through his subspace, finding nothing useful as a weapon. He rubbed nervously at his bare mesh for the electric fear in the air and looked up at Optimus questioningly. 

_Stay close to me,_ Optimus beckoned to him. He slid into a battle stance, though none of them were in any condition to fight. But he was sure by the way the alien mechs were acting that a fight was coming to them. He felt a little reassured when the large tripod-mech flashed him a kindly look and took position nearby.

The humming vibration rose to a crescendo, then replaced by a shimmer of light, and Optimus' fuel tanks lurched as they teleported to the surface without a trace of fanfare.

***

 

Down in the dark of the Bailiwick, Pipes was having the last of the Quintesson misery removed from his frame. He was sitting on a makeshift stool in the Constructicon’s cell-turned-workshop, and didn't look happy.

Megatron didn’t blame him for trying to avoid the workshop-medbay (and storage shed for Scavenger’s endless piles of treasures) until the last possible moment, prompting Megatron to walk him to his appointment while providing a mild educational lecture on the many benefits of punctuality.

The little mech had been shaking, and so Megatron chose to remain, standing nearby with his servos on his hips to supervise for Pipes’ benefit. Beyond him, Snarl was waiting outside with an impatiently lashing tail.

Megatron had to admit the dingy so-called medbay did little to inspire confidence. The rusty berth and cobbled together tools dangling from the ceiling were bad enough, not to mention Hook’s messy scribbled diagrams of Quint tech (Scavenger had scratched out every glyph for “Quintesson,” replacing them with messily drawn waste ports) all over the back wall.

But it _was_ cleaner then the Commons, so that was something.

Megatron watched as Pipes kept his servos clamped over the edges of the stool while eyeing the hulking Constructicon surgeon from the corner of his optic. He was trying desperately not to squirm as he’d quickly discovered what Megatron already knew; wriggling around invited more commentary from Hook, and he’d already had enough of Hook’s bedside manner to last him the rest of his functioning.

Megatron watched with satisfaction as the collar around Pipe’s neck fell free. It was the last piece and signaled the end of the ordeal. “Is that the last of them?”

“There are only a few left,” said Hook as he threw the broken collar to the side with distaste. "Most are clear of the devices."

Pipes' expression brightened when Snarl huffed and stomped on it, grinding the hated thing into slag. The heavy Dynobot beamed back at the nervous little mech.

"Most? Who else needs clearing? Megatron asked while shifting his weight to ease the strain on his knee-strut. "And what is the ETA on internal comms?"

Megatron offered Pipes a servo up and off the makeshift stool. Pipes dared to offer him a soft “thanks” and Megatron nodded at him, watching as he left with Snarl. Progress was slow but steady for the former Autobots, most of whom had finally stopped flinching under his gaze.

Hook glanced up at Megatron and then straightened. "I still need to work on that vicious gold mech and a few of the seekers, assuming we can get the flight frames _untangled_ from each other long enough to _–_ "

Megatron politely tuned out the following breems-long rant, though last night had been a bit… much. It was also part of the reason he still lingered in Hook’s vicinity, waiting for a private moment.

The various surviving jets had made up for the long periods of forced separation with noisy abandon last night. Anyone with any sort of wings had joined in. All the threatening shouts from the sleepy (snubbed) grounders and stares from awe-struck Junkions hadn't slowed them down in the _slightest_.

" _–_ sent our new Air Commander a complaint about the noise disruption. But to answer your question, internal comms will be functional for everyone within a few cycles.”

Megatron looked pleased. “Excellent.” Then his faint smile quickly faded and he squared his shoulders as if bracing himself for some unpleasant task.

Hook turned and regarded Megatron as he remained in their crude workshop. He noted the uncharacteristic fidgeting, and a curl of sadistic pleasure flared in his spark for the intense discomfort radiating from his patient. This was one of the perks of the job, this mentally painful, shame-filled embarrassment others directed his way when they had some intimate issue needing correction, and had to debase themselves to explain.

It was the perfect occupation for a sadist with enough self-control. “Did you require something?” Hook waited without the slightest indication of the intense glee winding through him for all the squirming.

“I do.” Megatron steeled his back strut. “I have been dealing with an ongoing issue with my interface array, and it has been growing steadily worse.”

Hook gestured towards the stool, affecting the bored look he had perfected to hide how much he enjoyed moments like this. His amusement coiled ever higher as he watched Megatron seat himself with a badly-concealed wince. Then with a last glance around the cell with its crude walls of garbage, welded to the bars for the thinnest insinuation of privacy, Megatron opened his interface panels to expose himself to the medic.

Hook knelt and visually inspected the ports. Everything looked in order. Vibrantly healthy in fact, but for the excess lubricant that was steadily dripping from Megatron’s spike sheath.

Two thick fingers slid inside the sensitive sheath and parted the folds as Megatron looked away and focused on the far wall. His eager spike began to pressurize even for that clinical touch. More hot trickles welled up and out.

“Hmn. Nothing appears to be medically wrong,” Hook said, always careful to keep his EM fields tightly tucked away. His vocalizer was the perfect mix of boredom and irritation for this patient wasting his precious time. “I assume your complaint is in regards to the excess lubricant?”

“Yes,” Megatron replied through clenched denta.

“Entirely normal for your condition, regretfully there is nothing I can do about it.” Hook’s assessment was entirely true, although his vocalizer contained not the slightest trace of anything resembling regret.

Thus Megatron, disappointed, chose to challenge him. “ _Regretfully_ , that is not an acceptable answer. This is affecting my functioning and I am _ordering_ _you_ to do something about it.”

“The guardian coding the Quintesson infected you with is the source of your issue.” Hook gestured around the workshop to remind his quarrelsome patient of their crude surroundings. Unspoken was the obvious reality; any medical issue beyond basic wound care was far beyond his ability to treat.

“Infected? Such a curious choice of vernacular,” Megatron asked warily. “My understanding was this was a natural part of our coding, recessive in our CNA. The Quintesson have done something particular to me, then?”

Hook tilted his helm. “Not just to _you_. While my Allicon branded me, I overheard them discussing their intentions. They injected everyone carrying this mark” – he pointed at the brand on his thigh – “with a modified version of the guardian coding.”

“Modified?” Megatron’s plating was starting to flare.

“Our species does have basic sub-routines to aid in natural functions, but nothing that would have provided the Quintesson such… primal results. They augmented the coding with Predacon CNA to get a stronger response.”

“Razorclaw?” Megatron blinked in confusion.

Hook snorted. “Not from the would-be emulators. They are a pale shadow of what they claim to be and only vaguely resemble. No, I mean the _real_ Predacons; the extinct species that Trypticon originally hailed from. They were solitary and their coding had to be strong enough to override their normal impulses, which by all archeological accounts, was to hunt and kill for the joy of it. Do you remember what Grimlock and his team were infected with at the beginning of the war? This is that same coding, though only the reproductive segments of it.”

“I see.” Megatron looked suitably dismayed at the mention of Grimlock’s old infection. “They were beasts in a very literal sense. Is this going to be a problem?”

“Your processor is fully intact,” Hook snorted. “You are in full control of your facilities. So long as nothing damaging happens to your frontal processor or your ability to think properly, there should be no issues with succumbing to stronger base instincts.”

“What can be done in the meantime?”

Hook shrugged. “There is nothing I can do for you, in any professional regards, anyway. Everyone forced to sire has to deal with the activated coding and the resulting ... discomfort. You are not the first mech to come to me with this complaint.”

Megatron frowned at that, snapped his intimate panels closed, and stood up off the stool.

Hook considered the other’s expression and was pleased with his results. Another functional but uncomfortably dissatisfied patient, his specialty! Then, remembering that Megatron’s fearsome reputation made intimate matters troublesome, Hook offered a further tidbit of awkwardness to his patient because he was just _that_ helpful.

“Off the record, I know the Armada has taken to alleviating the problem via more natural means, at the loudest decibels possible, per my previous complaints. I am certain you can glean my recommendation without further clarification.”

With a curt nod, Megatron strode away without another word.

As Megatron walked back towards the Commons, uncomfortable and dissatisfied, he saw flashes of purple and blue plating above.

Thundercracker and Skywarp were standing side-by-side on a catwalk above and they were arguing about something. Shapely blue wings were flared in irritation and Thundercracker’s lip plating curled just so. That mix of frustration and exasperation was almost exactly what Starscream used to use on him when he was being particularly bull-helmed.

A surge of longing rushed through him, and his spike twitched hopefully, offering up more lubricant. He groaned to himself and kept walking. He'd been surprised that Thundercracker had stayed out of last night's festivities. Remembering Hook’s uncomfortable recommendation, he hoped his rather harsh discussion back on the _Retribution_ hadn't been taken the wrong way.

Command was hardly expected to be celibate, after all.

Fraternization and celebrating freely with one's underlings was entirely acceptable. _Coercion_ was unacceptable. Spike sucking contests for rank, very unacceptable. _Promotions and your spike have nothing to do with each other._ Megatron had pounded that into his helm, metaphorically speaking. So far he’d heard no further complaints.

For himself, Megatron was now hoping Thundercracker would consider a frag-buddy arrangement, as his aching interface array was driving him to distraction. One drawback of his reputation was that most mechs were too intimidated to even consider joining his berth, for any reason.

Only Starscream had been so bold.

Hook hadn’t been joking about the Armada’s stress-relieving activities, and Megatron had hardly recharged last night for the noise. Not that he could begrudge the flight frames their exuberance, even when their noisy interfacing had roused him beyond what he could ignore. He'd been forced to take care of his aching array himself. He wasn't inclined towards self-service under normal circumstances (Starscream’s higher libido had meant he rarely needed to) but last night was an exception. The mess had been generous and his relief fleeting. The low-level charge wouldn't stay gone for long.

It wasn’t meant to.

 _We should be rutting like beasts about now, in any_ _regards_ , and Megatron was beyond morose for the thought. There were many things so very wrong with his and Prime's shared situation, but he couldn't help but long for the other. His new-old coding remained an insistent reminder.

_Ca-crack!_

A loud crackle of a hidden loudspeaker system activating startled everyone. Then noisy, obnoxious alarms started blaring, shattering the quiet.

Megatron whirled, searching for the source of the noise.

***

 

Random junk-piles seemed to explode to life from the trash as the Junkions roused, grabbing crude weapons of all types and roaring out towards the Commons.

“What’s happening?” Onslaught asked as he followed after them. Stepping out into the light, he pulled out a wicked-looking long knife, recently fashioned by Scavenger out of the trash around them. It would have to do as they couldn’t spare the energy for blasters. They were on strict survival rations only.

Thankfully the enemy was just as hampered.

Wreck-Gar answered the question as he hurried past. “Supply drop!” He gripped his energy spear tightly as he leapt up onto a towering pile of trash. He strained to get a better view of the chaos brewing in the main courtyard. The trash pile snorted, and Wreck-Gar grinned down at one of his own still reclining and playfully prodded him up with the butt of his spear.

_Supply drop?_

“New prisoners,” Onslaught muttered in realization as he looked out past the barricade. Within moments the Commons was bustling. The rest of the Cybertronians began emerging from the cooler refuge of the Bailiwick to investigate the racket, and his team sought him out.

Brawl stomped over with Swindle right behind him. "We gonna smash stuff?"

Onslaught grunted. "Not sure. Go find Vortex. We may need Bruticus.” He was satisfied when Brawl hurried away and Swindle stood next to him. They watched as Overlord’s minions poured into the courtyard, preparing to greet the new arrivals.

“Are we really wading into this?” Swindle asked him, sounding dubious over the prospect.

Onslaught’s optics narrowed. “Not sure.”

***

 

“You intend to help them?” Megatron asked Wreck-Gar while cautiously gauging his co-leader’s reaction. The hyena-laugh was back as he answered.

“No,” Wreck-Gar said. “Plenty stowed here now. We are going to help ourselves.”

Megatron straightened his shoulders. “My forces will provide aid. But all Cybertronians belong to _me_.”

Wreck-Gar shrugged, amiable enough with the idea. “Cybertronians not so common prey. Yours then today ... but all Junkions are mine.”

“Skywarp,” Megatron called over his shoulder, “Are you capable of warping outside the barrier to scout for us?”

Skywarp perked up. “Sure, but only a few times per cycle. I rerouted my warp-core to use my spark energy, but that means it could kill me if I’m not careful.”

“I understand. We will be cautious. Now I need you up there,” Megatron flicked his helm back, subtly pointing with his chin at an overhanging beam above the courtyard, “to report back what is happening.”

Thundercracker wasn’t so sure. “That sounds dangerous.”

Overlord’s gang was mobbing the courtyard. There are too many large, craven murderers flailing around for them to see what was happening. The support beam was right above the main courtyard. It was a good position for reconnaissance, but if anything happened … and Thundercracker tightened his grip on Skywarp’s arm, blinking when he couldn't remember grabbing him in the first place.

But Skywarp's wings lifted and dropped with an irritated _click_ and as he scowled – _the frag are you on about_ – and jerked his arm free. “I can handle it.”

Wreck-Gar could see a mob of Overlord’s strongest minions nearby, including the Chompazoid. It was obvious they were waiting for the shield to drop. “Can’t lower the shield,” and Wreck-Gar’s disappointment was thick in his lilting tones. “We must stay sealed. He wants you _bad_.”

Wreck-Gar was beginning to realize what a terrible mistake he'd made, inviting them into his bolt-hole. He'd wanted to increase his numbers with the best fighters available, but had no idea the long history between Megatron and Overlord.

Overlord had been overlooking the Junkions for the most part. He seemed content to keep Wreck-Gar’s little group alive as a distraction – foxes for the hunt – between supply dumps. Taking in Megatron meant Overlord needed the shield down to reach him.

It would not end well for the Junkions.

Megatron watched with a pensive frown as Skywarp vanished with a _wharp,_ taking position as the lift began to drop in the distance ... the creaking of the blasted machinery seemed a fitting funeral dirge for the arriving unfortunates.

*******

 

The first thing Optimus Prime perceived when he materialized was bright light and a pervading stench of burning gasses. He coughed and closed his optics instinctively, hearing the buzz of a massive protective energy field around them.

Opening his optics with caution, he was not happy with the cataclysmic view. The area around them was glowing hot, smoldering and crackling from the heat of the cruel star remnant above. Smoldering ash and sparks floated through the air.

The protective energy shield was the only reason he remained functional. Exposure to the kiss of the star would mean immediate, burning death for the stripped Autobots. The blasting heat through the energy shield from the brilliant light was startling, and yet welcome against his cold mesh. There was a long pause as the wary prisoners found their pedes. Then they lurched again as the platform began to drop, sinking down below the planet surface.

Once again, the tripod-mechanical offered them encouraging noise.

Still feeling unbalanced, Optimus glanced up at the alien and then reached out and checked his Autobots. The others looked as bewildered as he felt and struggled to get their baring. None of this was making any sense to him.

As they dropped to the structure down below, Optimus saw massive blocks of grating in the distance. There was decay and rust and piles of refuse everywhere. _This looks like a decrepit city. Where are they taking us…?_

There was a creak of gears as the lift locked into a final resting position, and then they heard sharp, frightened cries from the prisoners closest to the edge of the platform. There was a rush of filthy, vile-looking mechanicals hurtling towards them, and crude nets landed over the newcomers. Optimus craned his neck, struggling to focus for the havoc. He couldn’t make out what was happening, but it didn’t sound good.

Then Optimus’ spark dropped to his pedes.

“Welcome to the Uytis Penal Colony! I am Overlord, your new warden, entertainment director, and perhaps even your new _god_ if you are inclined towards religion! I hope you find the accommodations here to your liking as we are delighted to have you join us!"

The booming words were incomprehensible, but Optimus stiffened when Overlord tromped into view. The Decepticon was content to stand back and lord over the proceedings, and didn’t seem to recognize them.

Overlord addressed the newcomers with one last cheerful shout of gibberish. “Just kidding! Actually, while we _are_ happy to see you, I regret to announce that we haven’t fueled in days, and right now you look _delicious!_ ”

Alien mechs near the center blinked at each other in confusion for the discordant greeting. He sounded so… _friendly_. Surely they misunderstood some of his words? But for the Autobots, the tone was unmistakable. None of them misunderstood his jovial attitude for anything other than the homicidal promise it was.

Then Overlord called out an order and the slaughter began.

Next to him, Jazz hissed and the latches where Prowl’s door-wings would have connected were flaring in alarm for the feel of Jazz’s distressed electromagnetic fields.

Optimus adjusted Ratchet over his shoulder, freeing his servos for the fight to come. Bumblebee remained wrapped up in the sling across his back. The Autobots were in the middle, still protected from the huge gang now surrounding and attacking the newcomers.

Optimus clasped the netting, pulling it close to his uncooperative optics. _This is made of internal wiring and…fingers!?_ There was a roar of noise to go with his rush of alarm, the carrier-coding surging hot panic through him. It encouraged him to flee, even as he instinctively slid into a battle stance.

There was nowhere to run.

He watched as Jazz tested the net, and it began to part under his tearing servos and sharp little blade. It wasn't particularly strong, but it was robust enough to give Overlord's gang the advantage.

Perceptor and Wheeljack leaned against each other for support. _Do you have anything that would work as a weapon?_ Perceptor asked him hesitantly, making a motion for holding something and stabbing. But Wheeljack shook his helm while spreading his empty hands, waving his servos in alarm at the thrashing mess moving ever closer.

_They are killing everyone!_

Optimus watched in dismay as the smaller mechs were pulled out from under the netting and immediately butchered. The noise and tangy smell of spilled internal fluid wafted through the stale air as the protective mass of unfortunates around them began to thin.

Towering above the chaos, Overlord watched the slaughter with great amusement. With one finger tapping at his lips, he mulled over his choices as if picking out choice cuts at a market. Finally he singled out a few of the strongest mechs to be spared the butchery and added to his fighting forces.

No one ever turned him down.

***

 

Thundercracker strained his optics to read his trine mate’s distant wing-speak.

Standing next to him, Megatron was also peering up at Skywarp, but was unable to follow along. Even though he knew the elegant language, Skywarp was describing everything in a rapid-fire stream of consciousness. His wings were twitching too fast for anyone other than a fellow Vosnian to keep up with.

“Skywarp thinks he sees Cybertronians,” Thundercracker reported to Megatron. “But he isn’t sure. It’s a hot mess out there.”

Megatron perked up. _Reinforcements would be useful._ Taking this prison from Overlord promised to be a fight and a half. More soldiers could only help.

Thundercracker flinched. “He thinks he can see Cybertronian face plates in the crowd. Seven of them…no eight…one is in a sling across the largest one’s back plates.”

“Mm,” Megatron made a thoughtful noise.

Wreck-Gar stood with them, fingering a spear while the rest of his mechs readied and sharpened their weapons. Just in case. Standing a respectful distance away from Command, the Junkions and the rest of the Cybertronians were also watching the mayhem in the main courtyard.

"Aren't we going to help them?" Pipes whispered to Snarl. The Dynobot shrugged, "If they aren't Cybertronian, then I don't give a frag anymore." He didn’t bother to lower his vocalizer as anyone that didn't like his opinions could sit down with him, all peaceful like, and discuss it over a hearty meal of his Primus-damned tail-spikes.

Pipes winced up at him. "But we are still … you know."

"Not like that," Snarl’s tail swished through the trash and accidentally sent a hapless Junkion flying. He was unable to dredge up any compassion for alien species. "Not like it used to be. I hate them. I hate them _all_ and I don't care what happens to them anymore."

Nearby, Sunstreaker snorted agreement. "Frag them all."

"There _are_ Cybertronians out there," Swindle called back to them. He was standing close enough to the command huddle to overhear both conversations.

“Prowl is with them.” Scavenger said, sounding insistent and excited. The Constructicons were crowding around. They had charged over towards the barricade as soon as they sensed Prowl was close by.

“Can’t tell,” Thundercracker answered. Skywarp was still describing the beleaguered mechs trapped on the wrong side of the energy shield. They were slowly becoming visible for the thinning crowd of newcomers. “Too much chaos but he thinks there is a Praxian frame-type. No door-wings though.”

Hook grunted. “Is that why he’s so torqued off all the time? We can fix that.”

Scavenger made a happy noise, and started mentally compiling a list of scrap he would need to find to rebuild a pair of door-wings. The rest of Constructicons started talking at once, excited their team mate was within reach.

Their chatter was confusing to the former Autobots. Prowl? Constructicons? _Team mates?_   No one wanted to engage them to ask, though.

Long Haul began relaying instructions to the rest of his team, preparing to storm out into the turmoil to retrieve their wayward gestalt member.

Megatron had to order them back. “No one goes out there, not now.” Four Constructions froze in place, staring at him with identical stunned expressions.

“They outnumber us by far and all incursions must be planned,” Megatron reminded Long Haul. “You cannot just charge out there, they _will_ overwhelm you. Any mech taken alive would then face Overlord’s particular brand of monstrosity.”

“Not only that,” Onslaught added, “but he's been picking his minions with some forethought. They are all heavy weights, all from stronger species.”

Megatron peered through the shimmering energy barricade. “If they fight their way close enough to the energy shield to run through, that would be different,” he offered to the distraught Constructicons. He strained his optics, but was unable to make out the Cybertronians in the thrashing mass.

 **“Cybertronians!”** he roared out, “This is Megatron, your leader! Fight your way to me if you wish to live!”

“Whoever they are, they don’t look armored. Something’s wrong with them.” Thundercracker shook his helm in dismay for Skywarp’s hazy descriptions. “They aren’t going to be fighting anybody.”

***

Gathering up the others, Optimus prepared to fight.

 _Best rely on quick, precise strikes_. He snatched up a sharp piece of scrap metal to serve a blade. He didn't dare use his normal brawling style as he no longer had the plating for it.

Behind him, Jazz had his back plates. The others raised their fists and various scrap and prepared to fight for their lives. They still didn’t understand what was happening or why, but they could taste the blood in the air and hear the screams of the dying.

Vents quickening, Optimus found his mind and spark at war. He'd faced terrible odds before, survived countless long and dreadful battles. Part of him was surging with aggression, ready and almost eager to face down this challenge. But the rest of him was recoiling for the coming battle. The carrier coding was hard at work filling his circuits with sheer terror, stronger than anything he'd ever felt before. _Flee, hide, save yourself ..._ and then the tripod mech went down.

The first attackers broke through and there was nothing left but to fight.

Optimus lunged forward. Startled alien optics met his. He felt fear, and yet _no fear_. He met the vicious gang member halfway. His crude blade bit deep. Lashing out with a pede, he kicked the monster away.

Behind him somemech shrieked as Jazz landed a killing slice. Fluids splayed in hot spurts. _No mercy._ Jazz flashed him a playful grin through his own wild coding-fear.

He snatched up a piece of some unfortunate’s plating as a crude shield. _Good enough._ The next wave arrived, then one after another. He sent them sprawling back. He'd done this a thousand, thousand times; lunging, slashing, parrying, and then kick them back.

That noise he heard them make when they saw his face plates. That same noise. Over and over again.

 _Cybertronian_.

It had to be. But he forgot the sound in the next instant. He couldn't say it. He couldn't keep it. No matter how many times he heard it. The monster gang fell back and started picking other targets. It helped that they recognized his species. They were loath to engage with the little group of Autobots now. Even as battered as these were. They were still smarting from the last time they had squared off against a pack of determined Cybertronians, but it wasn’t long before too few of the other alien mechs remained.

Soon they were back under siege.

Fighting them off as best he could, Optimus heard a familiar vocalizer booming in the distance. The words were incomprehensible, but the voice itself was unmistakable. His spark lurched in his chest.

_Megatron is here!_

_What in the name of Primus is happening?!_

***

 

Megatron watched the Constructicons out of the corner of his optic while listening to Thundercracker’s streaming report.

He watched tensely as Long Haul listened to the dreadful noise with fists clenched. The Constructicons were clearly expecting to lose Prowl. They were waiting to feel him cut away from them just like Scrapper. It could come at any moment, but there was nothing they could do. Long Haul seemed resigned, but the other Constructicons were beside themselves and complaining bitterly for their helplessness.

“Can’t leave him in _this_ ,” Scavenger hissed to Long Haul. He was pointing at the bedlam and beside him, Mixmaster whined low in his intakes. The Constructicons peered through the barricade, frantic to catch sight of Prowl.

“We can reach him,” Hook raised a fist in frustration. “We have to try!”

“Breaking stuff’s what we _do_ ,” Mixmaster wailed. “Never gave a frag about being over matched before–”

“This shield is not coming down,” Megatron snapped. “Charging out now would amount to nothing more than suicide.” His tone booked no argument as Wreck-Gar and Onslaught nodded terse agreement.

They still seemed intent on protesting, but Megatron affixed them with a harsh, warning stare. No less than half of Overlord’s standing forces were clustered outside the energy shield, waiting, not to mention the monster himself. Megatron was unwilling to start the battle to the death that would begin the instant the shield dropped. He understood their anxiety. He, too, was disappointed to be so useless, but it changed nothing.

The thrashing bedlam continued, and Megatron watched as Overlord seemed to see something that caught his interest, and strode out towards the heart of the fighting. He was never more aware his mechs were over-matched a full ten to one. Many, many of these mechanoids were no pushovers … further cementing his deep mistrust and dislike of alien species. He rumbled unhappily as the sounds of butchery intensified across the courtyard. While he couldn’t care less about the alien mechs, the trapped Cybertronians were another matter. But there was nothing he could do to help them.

Regretfully, they must face Overlord alone.

***

 “Optimus Prime?!”

His gang immediately stepped back and Overlord looked delighted when he finally recognized the leader of the group of mechs feverishly fending off his gang. “This just keeps getting better and better! How _are_ you? You look _terrible_ , mech.”

Optimus looked up at Overlord, seeing his wide crocodile smile and his cheerful-sounding gibberish. He knew that expression and those tones and he set his pedes, vents roaring. The heated air had gone from feeling good to being too damned hot. He was venting hard, struggling to cool himself.

Optimus stole a moment to glance back at his Autobots. Jazz was coated in various shades of internal fluid, very little of it his. Wheeljack and Perceptor had already stumbled to their knees, neither in any shape for a prolonged fight.

None of them were.

Optimus glowered even as he stepped forward to face Overlord. The ex-phase sixer was watching him expectantly, clearly waiting for an answer.

Optimus didn't want him to know how bad off he was, that he couldn’t speak. He could feel excited kicks from inside for all his wild movements and mentally cringed. There would be no mercy, not from this mech. He clenched his fists and set his pedes in answer and hoped that was enough. He couldn’t focus. Too much was happening too fast. But if he was going to die today, it would be in defense of his little family.

Unfortunately, Overlord wasn't willing to leave it at that. “What? Nothing to say? Not even a clichéd battle cry or overused catch phrase for old time’s sake? You’re hurting my _feelings_ , Prime.”

Overlord reached out and batted away the bare fist aimed at his face plates. Wrapping a powerful servo around Optimus’ neck, Overlord hauled him closer. Optimus clenched his one free hand around the vise-like grip and growled defiance at the homicidal maniac.

 _Bumblebee is still with me,_ Optimus realized as the tiny mech twitched in his sleep, still wrapped in his sling. _Stay still, little friend._

“What…?” Overlord asked, tightening his grip as he poked Optimus in the abdominals, only now noticing the obvious. “What is… _this_?”

Optimus kicked out at Overlord. The sudden, gleeful malice that gleamed across Overlord’s face plates, now close enough to make out clearly, filled him with dread. And then Overlord’s expression smoothed over to something more pleasant-looking, which was _far_ worse.

“Here,” Overlord smiled kindly. “You look loaded down, and in more ways than one. Why don't you let me help you with, err, what’s his designation again?  Oh _right_ , Bumblebee... such a silly name. Anyway, let me help you with Bumblebee there.”

***

 

“Aw hell,” Thundercracker groaned.  “Overlord just killed the one in the sling.”

Megatron took a frustrated step forward _– there are_ _so few of us left! –_ and he threw his helm back to shout out a challenge when Onslaught interrupted him.

“Don’t,” Onslaught clamped a hand on his shoulder. “You let him know you give a frag and things will get even worse for them.”

Nearby, the Constructicons were pacing, growing feverish and panicky. For the first time Megatron was grateful they couldn’t combine into Devastator without their head component. He was certain they would have by now. The last thing they needed was an out-of-control, raging combiner.

“What do you mean make things worse?” Scavenger kicked furiously at a pile of trash. “How could things get worse?”

“It’s Overlord,” Sunstreaker called out in both accusation and unconcealed hatred. “It can _always_ get worse.”

“Fragger is whacked,” Brawl agreed from his position on a heaping pile of trash, straining to see the otherwise entertaining carnage better.

Sunstreaker’s lip plating quirked and then he looked over at Megatron with a challenging cant to his helm. “So we are just going to stand here and do nothing?”

"We have to do something!" Pipes piped up, his shy voice daring to grow loud though he took a step back towards Snarl.

Megatron opened his intakes to answer, but Onslaught beat him to the punch. “We go out there now _and_ _we will die_ and that won’t do them any good either way.”

Keeping thirty Cybertronians alive outweighed the terrible risks of saving seven. It wasn’t how Prime saw things, but for Megatron the numbers spoke for themselves. But the reality of that decision that was hard to bear, now more than ever before. But the next bit of news from Skywarp was even worse.

“They are carrying... all of them.” Thundercracker's wings drooped. “NAILS then, and it would explain the lack of armor. Maybe they got unlucky and the Maulers caught them.”

“Great. That’s… that’s just _great_. Frag this. I’m not giving Overlord the pleasure of an audience.” Sunstreaker stomped off without another word. If he couldn’t save them _fine_ , but he wasn’t going to stick around and watch. Several others followed after him as Pipes cast a mournful gaze back towards the courtyard. He trailed after Snarl and the others, down into the Bailiwick.

“Overlord just ordered the Cybertronians singled out. They are being dumped in cages,” Thundercracker reported, his wings drooping even further.

Onslaught winced. “What do you want to bet Overlord plans to put on a show?”

Long Haul snarled at that, his fellow Constructicons sharing his wild look. “I’m not watching a show. I _won’t_ watch a show. That freak touches Prowl and we are going to go out there and _break things_.”

“Hold up,” Thundercracker reported, his wings snapping erect with hope. “Something’s happening.”

 

***

Optimus grabbed at the bars of the cage.

The titan-steel ignored his best efforts and he couldn’t bend them. The noisy mayhem drowned out his spark-broken cry, except for Overlord’s smirk, somehow even wider.

His spark throbbed and he turned and purged his tanks for stress, gasping. He staggered forward even as Jazz pulled him back. Shared pain reflected through their intermingled fields, both awash with grief for ‘Bee, but the saboteur yanked on him hard.

 _Focus!_  

Then Jazz pointed behind him at a hole in the back of their cell and then dragged Optimus towards it, the larger mech having trouble walking for the shock of loss.

The gap was tiny and Optimus shook his helm at Jazz in disbelief. _There is no way we can fit down that!_

Jazz waved away his protests and pulled him closer to the tiny crack. _Transform to get through._

 _Impossible_ _!_ Optimus insisted. But Jazz pulled at him again and then began to transform.

It was a bizarre thing, watching Jazz’s internals unlatch and move as if to reorganize themselves as normal.  Without his heavy plating, his components became a loose assortment of interconnected parts. He slid through the cracks and then reformed himself back into root mode. Stripped and in mid-transformation, they were so slim now they can slip between the bars and wiggle through to the tighter spaces below.

Perceptor and Wheeljack have already dropped out of sight.

Sideswipe was struggling to push Prowl down through the gap and Optimus joined him. Tugging and pulling at Prowl’s components to coax him to transform, they worried at his parts as the chaos outside was beginning to quiet; the gang members were running low on victims. Finally Prowl slipped through, dropping as a lax mess of components down to the waiting scientists below.

Coaxing Ratchet through next, they were forced to smother his vocalizer with frantic fingers when he started grumbling for the rough handling. Then Sideswipe went through.

Optimus was the last, and as the largest of them it was a tight fit.  His carrying weight was a problem. He still carried the original newspark from his forced joining with Megatron and was further along than any of the others.

Optimus finally managed to force his way past. Hissing in pain for the tight squeeze to his flexible gestation tank, he could feel his newspark as a light touch inside as he wiggled down just as their tormentors noticed. They weren't pleased to see the evening’s entertainment escaping. He heard an enraged shout from Overlord, and set his denta in grim satisfaction, even amidst his anguish and the overwhelming fear.

_Good._

They charged toward the cell with whoops and shrieks of outrage as he dropped the rest of the way down. Sliding down and out of their reach, he winced for the squeeze. Another few deca-cycles and there would be no way he could manage this.

The others were waving at him with frantic gestures. _Hurry! Hurry Prime!_

Somewhere in the mess of loose parts, a huff escaped his vocalizer as Optimus stalled out near the bottom of the drop, and his Autobots grabbed his loosened parts and hauled on him. They pulled on him until he slid lose with a groan. He transformed back to root mode mid-fall and landed in ankle deep sludge. He shuddered as the last latch clicked into place. He disliked the loose feel of transformation without his plating.

They were at the lowest point of the prison now, in the shallow space beneath the final section of grating, forcing them to crouch or move on their knees. The rocky ground was solid beneath the tar-like sludge. Scrap metal piled up on the grating above was rather thick, providing cover as they hid beneath it.

Optimus was shaking, and he would have purged again if he had anything left to expel. Instead he pulled the others along with him towards the darkest part of the under-grate, sheltered by all the scrap atop it. It wasn’t ideal, but it meant they were invisible to the mechs above.

 _Rest for a moment,_ Optimus waved at them. They were all struggling to ventilate.

His carrier-coding was wild within him, having imprinted on little Bumblebee as if he were a newspark. The loss was triggering a _massive_ carrier moment, and he was unaccustomed to such terror. Within him, his own unborn writhed to the pulse of his frantic spark.

They were all soldiers, had all seen horrific sights. All of them have seen death and destruction akin to this before over the course of their long, long lives. But they were unfamiliar with such fear as the coding provided them. Everyone had taken turns holding Bumblebee when they could wrest him away from Optimus, attaching to him in the same way.

Optimus could feel his surviving Autobots crushing in around him. They were reaching for him, needing his calm, needing comfort. The small, cramped space echoed with their frantic vents and he closed his optics. 

Anguish was a feeling he was long accustomed to… this grief he felt for his own. But his surviving mechs needed him, and so he did what he'd always done after losing so many friends over the eons. He focused inward and pushed back his grief, shoving it deep, deep down where it became another barb added to the mental-flail he scourged himself with during quiet times of reflection.

Pulling himself up by his proverbial boot-straps, Optimus forced the calm to come. Feeling his unborn calm within him, he opened his optics and steady, bright blue light flooded the dark space around them. Seeing their huddled forms, he concentrated on the present, on saving his last remaining Autobots. His ventilations slowed and his electromagnetic fields soon reflected his calm and quiet…that peace within him as boundless as the deep blue sea.

Around him, the shivering mechs soothed and settled.

Optimus peered at the slag above them and then caught Jazz staring at him. Jazz respected the need for a moment of calm, but he was still worried. _Can’t stay here,_ Jazz motioned upwards towards the outer area. Ever pragmatic, he already wanted to get the others moving, even though he was just as affected as any of them. _Have to find somewhere safe._

 _Wait for the others,_ Optimus made an encircling gesture with his fingers. _Then we will search for shelter._

 

* * *

 

It was evening, and there was calm on both sides of the energy barrier.

Most of the Cybertronians were in the Bailiwick now, all but Command and one little group still out in the Commons. The latter were busy peering down through the slats at something far below.

“There they are again,” Swindle pointed. Shadows were moving, slender forms creeping. They seemed too elusive and frail to be normal Cybertronians and yet…

“What is going on?” Onslaught asked as he strode over to join them.

He struggled to peer through the many layers of grating to the farthest one below. The slats were generally aligned. If a mech held still and looked _carefully_ , he could see all the way through the layers and layers of titan-steel grating to the ground. In some places, anyway. There was a lot of scrap obstructing the view. He squinted. Yes, there _were_ skinny little shadows moving below.

“It’s them. It’s the civilians from before, has to be.” Swindle confirmed as he saw the flash of a face plate from down below. “They must have escaped Overlord through the grating.”

They had seen the rival gang rush towards the cages, but nothing more after that. No one knew what had happened to the captured mechs. All they knew was that according to Long Haul, Prowl was still alive, and the Constructicons were currently down in the Bailiwick, fuming.

“That’s not possible. The space between the grates is too small.” Thundercracker craned his neck trying to spot what had caught the Combaticon’s interest. “There is no way anyone could get down there.”

Swindle cocked his helm. "You don’t know that. It’s wider around the edges."

Skywarp noticed them and with a _wharp_ appeared next to his trine mate. He started looking too, and then confirmed when he finally caught sight of them. "Oh yeah, that's them for sure."

Swindle grinned triumphantly while Thundercracker dropped his wings with a _click_.

Above them, Megatron heard the signature noise and it derailed his train of thought. “Skywarp,” he called down from a rickety catwalk. “You will cease using your ability for frivolous reasons until further notice. We may have need of it, and you are not to waste the energy.”

Skywarp sighed and his wings drooped, but he nodded up at Megatron without a word. Thundercracker noticed the distinct lack of sass in his response and it irritated him. He flicked his wings at Skywarp to catch his attention, addressing him in wing-speak.

_'You don’t give Megatron any slag, but you tweak my wings every single time I give you an order.'_

_'That’s because your orders are stupid.'_   Skywarp’s wings twitched in sharp, tight movements. _'Explain again why you told Glorious Leader, in front of everybody, that a stupid scouting run was too dangerous for me!'_

 _'It was dangerous!'_ Thundercracker leaned forward _. 'As Air Commander I am responsible for you, so of course I am going to look out for your welfare–'_

Skywarp turned his back and stomped away, and Thundercracker followed after him, both of them arguing with furiously twitching wings.

Onslaught watched them disappear into the Bailiwick, and shook his helm. At least he wasn’t the only one with a plateful of irritation. _I will have to pull Thundercracker aside at some point. He’s letting his subordinate get under his plating, always a mistake. Let them see they’ve rattled you and half the battle’s lost right out the gate._

“Scrap,” Swindle hissed. “Hey Onslaught–”

Onslaught instinctively winced. Swindle grinned in a flash of mirth that quickly died. He had gotten a better look at one of the creeping shadows down below.

“Do you remember that brand the Quints gave Blast Off?" Swindle asked. “The weird one with the dot?”

Onslaught frowned. “I remember. What about it?”

“Those mechs … at least one of them has it.” Swindle looked up at his squad leader, face plates pensive. “I think they are some of _us_ , escaped from the Quints. You don’t think …” He trailed off and swallowed. He didn’t always get along with Blast Off as the shuttle-former’s high opinion of himself (and thus low opinion of them) could be grating at times.

But they were still brothers.

They could all feel Blast Off through the gestalt bond. They could hear distant echoes of his moods and sense if he was in pain, but couldn’t speak with him. Blast Off was always bored, anxious, and lonely, but there was nothing to suggest pain beyond the occasional jolt.

Onslaught clamped a hand over Swindle’s shoulder. “Let’s keep this between ourselves for now. There could be some other explanation.”

Onslaught had already assured his team that Blast Off was top priority as soon as they got off this rock, and the others had accepted that. This nasty bit of news would only further the undercurrent of anxiety his team felt over their enslaved brother, and it might not mean anything.

Swindle dropped his optics back to the little shadows below, expression amiable if still unhappy. The shadows were still moving, and then he caught a glimpse of a face plate. “Hey, you see that big one? Well, bigger, anyway? He seems familiar.”

“Can’t see their faces,” Onslaught muttered as he pulled his servo back and turned his attention back to the shadow-mechs below. "Can't see much of anything."

Swindle tilted his helm in consideration, and then gave a sharp whistle. Down far below, five weary face plates looked up all at once.

“I don’t believe it,” Swindle said as Onslaught peered down, still struggling to see them from his angle.

“It’s _Prime_!”

***

 

Standing up on a catwalk near the barricade, Megatron was tuning out the conversation below and focusing on watching the enemy. It was quiet on the other side of the shield barrier now, and Overlord was out of sight; the maniac had blown him a kiss and then disappeared into his guard station-turned-chambers for the evening.

Overlord’s minions were restless, and the Chompazoid continued to catch his eye; the mech seemed familiar to him. He was certain he had spotted a Decepticon sigil on his shoulder, though the mech was so grimy it was hard to see. Then the Chompazoid turned to snap at someone and yes, he was definitely wearing Megatron’s old sigil. _What was his name? Something bite…Hardbite? Downbite? …mhn. Doesn’t sound right. But he was mine, once. He may be useful if approached properly._

Megatron returned to his strategizing.

He briefly considered a return campaign of terror, but seeing the way Overlord’s gang members cowered, he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do to inspire such fear. Nothing more effective than the maniac’s own threats, and he didn't even want to attempt to match him… his spark still remained somewhat functional.

There was a difference between killing because you must and killing for the sake of killing. He _was_ guilty of peering into that dark abyss for too long, but he had flinched away before it had claimed him. All the leering horror still bothered him, more so now that he had allowed himself to care about his mechs. More so now that he was surrounded by _Cybertronians,_ and not mere tools for a means to an end.

 _Leaving Overlord to his own devices was a grievous mistake_. _Unrelenting obsession does not agree with him._ It was a mess he should have cleaned up a long time ago. In a meager defense, while there had been the occasional mention of Overlord’s activities at Garrus-9 from time to time, they hadn’t conveyed just how much his ex-general’s mental facilities had degraded. Would he have helped rescue the prisoners there if he had known? He was careful not to follow that train of thought too far. It stopped at a place in his mind he wasn’t so comfortable with anymore.

“It’s _Prime_!”

 _That_ drew his attention and Megatron’s helm swiveled around. “What did you say?” He immediately dropped from the upper grating with a _whump_ and strode towards them. “What do you see?”

Onslaught pointed. “There’s a group of mechs down there. Probably the same group from this afternoon and we think they might be Autobots. Prime is with them.”

“Cybertronians,” Megatron corrected him while peering down below.

Onslaught glanced at him. “Kind of up to _Prime_ what he calls himself, right?”

“Yes of course.” Megatron's distracted tone suggested he wasn't listening. "We need him up with us as soon as possible. We could use his assistance.”

“We were planning on taking the lower sections anyway,” Onslaught reminded Megatron, though he could tell his leader wasn't paying proper attention anymore. “As soon as we claim them for ourselves, we would have a clear path for Prime to reach us, and we can box Overlord in and start limiting his movements.”

Megatron stepped forward, finally catching sight of the shadows below, though he couldn’t make out any details. His optics flashed. “Prime!” he shouted, “Can you make your way to us?”

The shadows below jolted again. Another flash of face plates and then they began to disappear from sight under the heavier piles of slag around the edges of the grating below. Megatron followed their movements with keen optics. He needed to talk to Prime sooner rather than later. _We have so much to discuss, our personal situation, dethroning Overlord, escaping this hellhole, defeating the Quintesson, saving Cybertron...!_  

Megatron stepped forward a few paces, beyond excited. Electric anticipation shot up his back strut as he paced the movement below. He huffed to himself in irritation when his spike _thoked_ off his panel, eager to join the party. He denied the request to open. He was about to shout out again when a harsh servo stopped him and Onslaught tightened his grip in warning.

“Overlord can _hear you,_ sir.”

Megatron snapped his intakes closed. _Damn it all._

Frustrated, he scowled in disappointment as the little group of shadows disappeared from view.

 

*** 

_We need to go **now**. _

Jazz was growing more and more insistent, and no one questioned the saboteur's keen survival instincts.

Holding Jazz's intense gaze, Optimus nodded and then settled Ratchet back over his shoulder. Adjusting his sleeping medic for comfort, Optimus began to creep forward, waving a command at the others. _Follow me. Let’s go._

Relieved to be moving again, Jazz was quick to take point. He crept around the corners of the heavy support columns first, the tiny blade clenched tight between his fingers. They stumbled across bodies in the muck - many small bodies - but nothing alive.

Wheeljack took a few steps away to reach out and turn one of them over. He crept back when Optimus clicked warning at him, not wanting him to stray. It wasn't safe for any sort of solo wandering. Looking over at the others, Wheeljack dropped his hand to make the motion for _small_ , and then sliced across his neck cables for _kill_ ... _remember how they kill the little ones first_ , was what he meant.

Jazz glanced at Wheeljack, then down at the little bodies, and the situation grew clear. The smallest mechs could escape through the grate, which explained why the prisoners bothered to use a net when they had the new arrivals completely surrounded.

The state of the bodies suggested a bigger problem. _No fuel,_ Perceptor gestured, making a motion for drinking and opening his hands to show they were empty.

Optimus nodded at him. He had plenty of fuel in his subspace yet, so there was no need to worry. He motioned a clenching fist with a worried expression, and then releasing his fist and relaxed, fingers open. At their confused looks he mimed drinking and then hauling something behind him, to suggest his subspace. _Still have plenty,_ he meant and the others looked relieved.

They continued to crawl down into the depths of the prison below, staying low and keeping to the edges.  Trying to remain beneath the covered areas, they did their best to avoid the sections where servos might easily slip through and grab at them.

 _They can’t get through_ , and Jazz pointed at the grate with brightening optics. There were burn marks in the slats above, and the marks were clear signs someone had tried to cut through the grating at several points. The titan-steel had resisted all efforts.

Optimus nodded and pointed at the grate above their heads and began to gesture. _This is the base of this structure. It is a solid grate, a floor. No one is meant to be down here. We should be safe enough so long as we don’t get grabbed from above._ Everyone stared at his gestures in confusion, his concepts too big and motions too random and after a few astro-seconds of fruitless effort he finally gave up and just herded everyone onward.

Then a shrill whistle sounded above them, and everyone instinctively looked upward towards the sound. They startled to see glowing red optics peering down at them from far above.

 _Decepticons,_ Jazz motioned with a harsh scowl. The Decepticons were impossible to make out. There were too many slats between them, but those flickers of red struck a deep, primal cord within them all … _enemy_. The carrier coding writhed within them.

_Flee, hide, stay safe…_

After so much time passed without contact, the coding had sensed their mates were gone. Switching over to solitary survival, their instincts now urged hiding. A gestating Predacon without a mate ran a dreadful risk. While there would be no difficulty finding a new mate, the current youngster’s life would then be forfeit. After a certain point it was no small investment for the carrier, and resources already expended would then be wasted; better to hide and tough it out. It was hardly a concern in the here and now, but the coding was mere instinct for the benefit of beasts and there was no arguing with it.

The Autobots kept moving, and then Optimus jolted when he heard Megatron shout. He didn’t understand what was happening, but his carrier-coding made him afraid. As much as he wanted to trust the mechs above him for a peace treaty that he couldn’t even recall the name of, there was no way now. Not with all the death and madness. It made no sense to him, and so they moved deeper under the protective trash-cover until they finally found a drier spot. Sideswipe returned from around a corner with a ratty tarp.

 _Good enough,_ Optimus nodded and Jazz laid it out and the rest piled onto it, getting out of the muck.

Prowl’s wing-latches shivered and Jazz rubbed the tactician’s soft back mesh, the sweet spot between his wings to comfort him. Prowl twisted at the touch, his reactions honest and uninhibited by his unconscious state.

Optimus saw Jazz flinch, and he felt bad for them both. He pulled Ratchet from off his back and pressed him against his front. It wasn’t long before the rest of them started climbing into his personal space. All of them longed for the comfort of his fields, and didn't even bother with subtlety anymore. He extended his electromagnetic field while forcing himself to relax, drawing on the deep calm within to comfort his mechs. They huddled together and surrendered to their need for sleep, feeling safe enough to rest.

Above them, a ratty-looking mech with razor teeth crouched low, waiting as one by one they drifted off into recharge.

All but Jazz.

Clever blue eyes remained open and alert, his trusty little blade glinting in nimble fingers. His other servo continued to rub over Prowl’s back strut … _I’m here and you’re safe_ … even as Prowl’s frown remained.

Jazz winced again and removed his servo, but after a moment he reached out and laid it back even as Prowl’s frown deepened and he tried to squirm away.

Jazz was pushing at the boundaries of propriety with the other mech and he knew that. He'd been dumped to the curb some time ago, but he still held a candle, though a wiser part of him knew he was being a fool. Prowl was obviously finished with him. It was just that he never understood what had gone wrong. One moment they were…and then the next they weren’t and Prowl wouldn’t _talk_ to him and it made his helm spin and his spark ache.

Uncertain of the future but hell-bent on proving himself to the other if he could, Jazz stayed on his guard. Playing with the small, sharp blade in his fingers, his optics glittered as he peered through the garbage-littered slats, vigilant against the madness above.

Gleaming yellow optics considered the situation. The saboteur’s movements held promise of cold violence and the mech transformed into a rail-thin, slinky beast mode.

The Rat slipped away to wait for a better opportunity.

 

 


	11. Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Megatron plots while friends and enemies lurk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** This story can get very dark, and please be aware of that. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :)

Just before the breaking dawn, a flash of graceful blue wings could be seen in the Commons.

The energy shield dropped for the barest of kliks, and with one swift leap, Ion Storm transformed. Blasting past the lowered energy shield, the Rainmaker flew upwards, skillfully navigating the lift tunnel as the energy shield reactivated with a _whik_ sound.

"Fraggin' hell," one of the aliens shouted, then went rolling as Ion Storm clipped him with a wing as he roared past. He'd been tasked with a scouting mission by his Air Commander, and was heading out while it was still cool enough. It was little more then a quick flight outside of the penitentiary, but any time spent outside the energy shield was risky.

After a harrowing flight through tight spaces, Ion Storm flew up and out into the sky above.

The rest of the Armada watched him leave with a touch of envy, none more so then Skywarp. He'd offered (begged) to go, desperate for some air time. But Thundercracker had sent Ion Storm instead. Returning from below, Skywarp dumped an armful of salvaged blades into the weapons cache with a noisy clatter, reckless and angry. He looked up just in time to see Ion Storm vanish into the sky, then turned and glowered at his new Air Commander.

Thundercracker pretended not to notice.

Skywarp had argued, noting how strange it was that any dangerous missions automatically went to other seekers ... to the point that the Armada was talking. But Thundercracker hadn't budged a micron, and for all 'Warp's sulking, it _was_ a pathetically short flight.

Only minutes later and Ion Storm was back. Dropping like a stone from the sky above, he came down into the penitentiary in a rush of wings and thrusters. He twisted and turned, avoiding enemy projectiles and and other attempts to derail him, and his frame crackled with heat as he darted to safety within the energy shield.

Megatron joined them as Ion Storm landed. Megatron had just roused from a power nap with Onslaught (no one slept alone thanks to the Rat, and he and Onslaught had berthed down together, sleeping back to back for safety).

“Bad news,” Ion Storm reported as he landed, his cooling vents roaring. “The Junkions are right. Even with the star down, it’s still too hot and there is no other shelter anywhere within range.”

Skywarp handed him a cup and Ion Storm gulped down a mouthful of watery soup and then continued, “not even caves. Nothing. If we go out there, we can count on deactivating not long after sunrise.” He blinked and stared down at the cup, surprised for the agreeable taste, then winced when he remembered what it was made of.

Wreck-Gar was leaning against a wall nearby, rummaging through a sack, fully distracted. He looked up for a moment, not surprised for what their scout had found. “I sent flying mech out some time ago. He found the same.” He waved his hand and shrugged, returning his attention to the sack with dim optics.

Nearby, Thrust was standing just a few microns too close to Thundercracker. There was still an opening in the command trine, and Thrust was trying hard to woo his new commander, however careful to toe the line of propriety.

Thundercracker was less than thrilled. Thrust had been his strongest, most annoying rival throughout the ages. He couldn't count the times Thrust tried (and sometimes succeeded) in sabotaging him. A lesser mech might have enjoyed the brown-nosing, but with the stress he was under right now, he found the attention beyond irritating.

 _How did Starscream deal with this slag?_ Thundercracker tried to remember. A few dredged memory-files later and he realized his lost trine mate had enjoyed it, and most likely partook from the offers from time to time.

Thundercracker had no such interest.

He was also in constant contact with Megatron and lately he’d come to recognize when Megatron was thinking of Starscream as well. More then a few times he'd seen that dark plating flare when distant optics focused on Thundercracker's wings. Megatron had even approached Thundercracker a few nights ago.  Black palm trailing down his sensitive wing, Thundercracker had froze in place, too intimidated to respond to that intimate touch.

Familiar with Seeker body language, Megatron had immediately realized he would have to be more direct with his desires. Thundercracker was far too nervous to respond and so his touch had lingered. Tracing a wingtip, he'd asked permission for further contact with a low and lusty tone.

Thundercracker had been completely intimidated. _This was the Slagmaker!_   ... but he knew Megatron suffered for the guardian coding and needed relief as much as any of them. And so when Megatron had dipped his helm close, Thundercracker hadn't protested.

The moist trails left by Megatron's soft vents on his neck cables had left him excited, but also… clammy. Fearful. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. Even with the clear physical cues, he just hadn’t felt safe enough to touch or explore the other mech.

Thundercracker remembered hesitating, remembered the painful awkwardness. His servos had hovered over the dark plating like two nervous birds, feeling the heat emanating off the excited warbuild. Almost touching Megatron’s eager plating, he'd pulled away at the last moment. He just couldn’t do it.

Thundercracker was nothing like Starscream, and Megatron had also hesitated for the anxiety creeping into TC's electromagnetic fields. The nervous tilt of his wings further betrayed his discomfort; he just didn’t want the kind of vicious interfacing he knew Starscream enjoyed. He was up for any sort of _normal_ fragging, but brutal clanging held no interest for him.

Maybe Megatron had intended something different. Maybe Megatron would have be satisfied with something gentler, but Thundercracker didn't know how to ask without making things even more awkward. Would it have been admitting weakness to tell Megatron that what turned Starscream's crank killed his? He wasn't sure. Anxiety drowned lust and so Thundercracker had pulled away.

To his credit, Megatron had immediately halted his advances. He'd pulled back, even though his frame ached with need, and murmured, “This… isn’t going to work, is it?” 

Thundercracker had never heard him sound so disappointed, and he winced in memory. He still felt bad for his leader, but he'd held his ground, too uncomfortable to dare continue. “No," He remembered saying. "It’s like kissing my batcher… no ignition.” He'd shot the other an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

Megatron had just lifted a servo and waved it dismissively and then strode stately away.

“What does that mean?” Thrust asked, breaking Thundercracker's train of thought. Thrust was standing too close again. His wings flexed and canted in suggestive angles, then he frowned when his Air Commander ignored him and stepped away.

“It means we aren’t escaping any time soon.” Thundercracker snapped at his irritating subordinate. There was no doubt in his processor that if he extended his spike right now he would have Thrust dangling off it within kliks ... and Megatron breaking his face plates shortly thereafter. Especially after he'd turned his leader down.

So awkward.

“Cybertronians can fly in space,” Wreck-Gar looked confused. “Why not just fly away?”

“We are too close to the star.” Thundercracker's wings twitched with exasperation as he caught Skywarp egging Thrust on. “We wouldn't survive long enough to leave orbit.”

Wreck-Gar snorted, “Thought Cybertronians a tougher lot.”

“Some of us are.” Megatron remembered Sixshot and the handful of his more sturdy soldiers. He couldn't help but wish a few of them were around for the upcoming fight.

Then Megatron blinked in surprise when he spotted some of the items in Wreck-Gar's sack; a small colorful blanket, food-droppers, cleaning rags, a little toy, and a book – made of paper? – entitled ‘Prenatal Yoga for Partners’ and Megatron stepped forward and peered at the items with keen curiosity.

“Where did you find these?” Megatron asked. 

He was already considering what he might have to offer in trade. The useless-looking book aside, the rest of the items would be very useful for Prime. Megatron remembered he had a decent hand-held blaster he could offer. He'd found it in the dreck and it was currently powerless, but the weapon itself was elegant and still worth something. He was about to offer when the look in Wreck-Gar's eyes pulled him up short.

“Lucy needs them,” Wreck-Gar replied.

His response was distinctly glum, and the nearby Junkions all flinched and looked away. While pretending not to notice them, Wreck-Gar realized that the clueless Cybertronians were now staring at him. They regarded him inquisitively; they could sense a story and were waiting for him to share. But Wreck-Gar only gave them a dismissive wave.

Cocking his helm in disappointment, Thundercracker merely shrugged and continued, "I asked for volunteers to set up a room for the carrying mechs, as you suggested. It will be ready for them, whenever we can coax them up with us."

"The patrols are to keep an optic open for them," Megatron ordered as he turned and strode away. "Notify me immediately if they are spotted."

...

 

Late morning arrived hot.

Far above, the white dwarf blasted the surface of the planetoid in bitter greeting. Soon the surface was broiling. Bright light shined down into the prison from above, striking the courtyard with a disk of burning light.

For Megatron’s group, things had grown calmer, if no safer. At this point, their most pressing concern beyond recovering the carrying mechs and basic fuel (and throngs of craven, merciless bloodthirsty cannibal murderers) was the air conditioning systems choking in the distance. Housed a few levels down, the air conditioning system was on its last legs, struggling to wheeze cooler air into the penitentiary.

The Constructicons listened to the hysterical mechanism in the distance, and Long Haul groused. A piece of machinery was hiccuping in distress and they longed to heed the call. But Overlord and his crew were lounging lazily outside the energy barricade.

“Don’t you have mechs that can fix that?” Scavenger yelled irritably across the noisy barrier. “I know you mechs are roasting too!”

“Regretfully, no.” Overlord called back, his tone equal measures of cheerful and sly. “But if you want to work out some sort of _agreement_ , I’m listening. You already know what _I_ want.”

“Uhuh,” Scavenger snorted. Trash crunched beneath his pedes as he walked away with a shrug at the others. Locked down as they were, there wasn’t much else to do, and it wasn’t long before the trouble-making started.

A clean and helpful mech by nature, Pipes was soon unhappy with the state of his surroundings. “Can you _believe_ some people actually _like_ all this mess everywhere?” Pipes asked Snarl as he dumped armfuls of trash into a crude compacter-smelter (Scavenger had cobbled it together for him).

Snarl stared back with round, wide optics from his comfortable nest of piled trash. “Hard to believe,” he mumbled while snuggling further down into the dreck. He wondered if he should leave his comfortable spot and help … maybe … umm … _nah._

Another few armfuls tumbled into the smelter before someone finally noticed his dastardly actions. One Junkion pointed at him, optics rolling back in horror, “the quicker picker upper!” while another dove to rescue the mess from the – clearly! – deranged little mech while screaming at Snarl, “friends don't let friends drive drunk!”

“I’m not drunk! I just don’t want to live in a slaghole!” and Pipes brandished the handful of trash and wires in his fingers for emphasis. “Is it too much to ask for a clean space?” even as the ratter-tatter mech snatched the scrap out of his hands mid-rant.

Yes.

The answer was yes. It _was_ too much to ask. The Junkions jabbered in disapproving tones and carefully re-arranged their precious trash piles into even _trashier_ trash piles while giving the little mech the stink eye.

“Why is he waving his optic at me?” Pipes stared at the crowd of messy rust-buckets. Utterly flabbergasted, he slumped against Snarl in defeat.

Snarl just shrugged, his massive armor plates flexing down his back with a clatter. Then he extended one heavy front leg in offer, and Pipes hopped up and onto his back between his neck and first shoulder blade.  Relieved to be out of the mess, Pipes held on as the Dynobot clambered to his massive pedes and lumbered away. A powerful form on four legs, Snarl's indiscriminate tail sent Junkions flying in all directions.

Megatron, too, was still out in the Commons. Having turned his back plates to the scene, he was tuning out the ridiculousness as was his wont. He didn't react even as a howling Junkion sailed over his helm. The flailing junk-pile nearly flattened him, but Megatron side-stepped at the last second without so much as blink. He was too busy searching the depths below to be bothered by such silliness, as he was still trying to catch sight of the carrying mechs.

But while standing near the energy shield, Megatron made the mistake of wandering within chatting range. Smelling opportunity, Overlord sauntered over and yelled a cheerful greeting. Now Megatron was returning Overlord’s vicious, cutting insults in a verbal tennis match as they ran the gauntlet from flamboyant posturing to snappy one liners, finally spiraling downward into outright aft-clownery.

Confused Junkions fled from the verbal carnage; Snarl clapped huge servos protectively over Pipe’s audials, Vortex recorded the entire thing to play for Blast Off’s bitlet (Brawl punched him) and Swindle tried to sell tickets (Brawl punched him too) and Sunstreaker stood grinning with his hands on his hips (Brawl punched him three ‘cause he loved punchin’ stuff) and finally both warlords started running out of material as a free-for-all started up in the background.

Thankfully Onslaught was heading his way, tromping towards him with purpose. It gave Megatron an excuse to walk away with a dismissive gesture. Scowling at Megatron's retreating back plates, Overlord snapped a last and feeble retort as he, too, strode away to recover.

Onslaught caught up with Megatron a moment later. “I just denied the Constructicon’s request to go out and repair the air conditioning unit,” Onslaught said with an irritated flash of his blast mask, though that was a common expression lately. “And explained to them, again, why a rescue mission would be suicide.”

“They are anxious to be reunited with their team mate,” Megatron returned his attention to the lower grating, strained his optics for the umpteenth time. Still nothing below. “It is understandable.”

Very understandable. He’d woken with an aching interface panel again, coming out of recharge hot and ready, and he was dead set on relocating the injured mechs below up with his group. Prime was likely disoriented, and he wanted to speak with him as soon as possible. Gauge his reactions, start courting him if need be. No matter how Prime felt about him right now, combining their teams into one group was the only sensible option.

_Must be prepared for rejection. After all, Optimus may be displeased with me… it may not matter to him that I did my best to spare him. It may not be enough to sooth animosity. Not for what happened between us._

“I think they should be left out of the first attack phase,” Onslaught stared after Scavenger as he disappeared back down into the Bailiwick with another handful of treasures. “They’ve been acting odd ever since up-linking with the Autobot tactician.”

Megatron processed that and answered, “No. They are too critical to underutilize.” But it was another ghost of the past creeping up behind him. That was going to be an unpleasant conversation with both Prowl and especially Prime.

More concerns for later.

Onslaught was still arguing the point, but he was barely listening anymore. Standing prominent in his mind’s eye was a blue and red mech, and his processor churned through a whirlwind of possibilities and concerns. _I must be careful to be sensitive about his…state. I would despise such a situation if I were in his place._

“–wouldn’t put it past them to run off on their own and slag things up. The last thing we need is mechs running off half-cocked and Overlord getting lucky.”

Behind them, Brawl’s shocked yelp rang out as the Rat scored another mouthful, much to the tank-former’s outrage. He kicked at the trash while trying to chase after the miserable mech, but the Rat had already vanished.

“I am heading down there,” Megatron announced. He could charm the wings off a seeker if he wished - Thundercracker notwithstanding - and the sooner he had access to Prime the faster he could coax him into a mutually beneficial functioning involving shared tactical data, repairs, fuel, belly rubs, and lots and lots of overloads.

Onslaught snorted. “Ask me how I know you weren’t actually listening to me.”

And Megatron still wasn’t listening. A flash of movement caught his optic, but it was just a bit of trash settling and he leaned back in irritation. _I should have kept those Allicon’s heads to prove how I have struggled to avenge us all. Then again, Optimus was not one to revile in death, not even for justice._

Now Onslaught was scowling behind his blast mask. “That is highly inadvisable, sir.”

“I wasn’t asking for your opinion,” Megatron dismissed his concerns without consideration, completely distracted.

 _Optimus will need repairs, but if he is on the move then he can’t be that bad off. The Constructicons can get him back into fighting form. I will have to shoulder the brunt of any battle for now, but still… you and I, Prime. We will fight Overlord’s insanity together. Between the two of us, he won’t stand a chance_ –

But Onslaught leaned forward and got right up into Megatron’s face plates. “And I wasn’t waiting for permission. With all due respect, what you told the Constructicons still stands. Nobody goes out there without a plan.”

Megatron snapped out of his reverie and stared. The harsh words knocked him back into the present and he was briefly overcome with a painful sense of déjà vu. A red and white pit-spawned glitch of a jet used to serve this role, countering him with the same fearlessness. His new second’s words lacked the withering insults and snide threats of overthrowing him, of course. But the familiar defiance hit him hard. He found he couldn’t defeat the logic, no matter how his body and spark ached for his counterpart.

“Then we best continue with the plan.” Megatron squared his shoulders. “I spoke with Skywarp at length this morning and there is no way he will be capable of ferrying mechs in or out of the energy shield in any number.”

Onslaught relaxed as the sharp, calculating visage returned to his leader’s face. _This_ was the mech that would get them out of here alive. “Well, I have good news then. The Junkions just told me about a tunnel they have been working on. It will lead out into the prison proper, near the lower levels.”

“Allowing our rivals a way into our refuge seems counterproductive,” Megatron pointed out.

Onslaught lifted his servo in a placating _yeah-true-but-listen_ gesture. “Wreck-Gar agrees. That is why they started digging it so it's parallel to the energy shield. We can extend the shield down below to cover the second exit a ways into the tunnel itself–”

“–so that its existence is not apparent, or at least until our first surprise attack," Megatron tilted his helm in contemplation. "That _would_ be useful. Where is it? Show me.”

“Down in the cave at the lowest level.” Onslaught answered as they both strode together to inspect the tunnel’s progress.

They crossed the threshold between the Commons and the Bailiwick and then hesitated. Wary side-eyes had them tacitly agreeing that no, no they _definitely_ didn’t see what Mixmaster was up to. They were _serious_ _mechs_ with _serious problems_ and they continued deeper into the cave without a word on the subject.

Instead Megatron asked, “How far along are they?”

“Yeah … not very.” Onslaught answered as they strode into the cooler recesses of the cave. “This may come as a shock, but the Junkions don’t have much of a work ethic."

Megatron snorted. "You don't say."

One of larger cell rooms had been converted into a communal sleeping area for the carrying mechs. Megatron glanced over with approval as he walked by; the makeshift berths were filled with soft padding and looked rather comfortable. Some mech had even painted a lively scene, complete with written glyphs over the back walls, the exquisite calligraphy further brightening the area.

"Long Haul and a few others are working on it,” Onslaught assured him. “It’s just a glorified hole in the rock and he was certain they could finish it within a few joors.”

Further in, Megatron inclined his helm in response to the Armada’s cheerful greetings. Then he noted several of them were hunched over something in the back of a nearby cell. Their frames were straining, wings flicking and flexing, and Skywarp’s optics were alight with mischievous glee. Megatron tore his gaze away and decided not to look in their direction any further.

_Serious mechs! Serious problems!_

“We could mobilize today and catch them by surprise,” Megatron said. “They aren’t expecting trouble from us, and they are still injured from yesterday’s … harvest.”

"I had a thought about that, actually."

Onslaught started laying out his newest idea as they walked towards the end of the cave. He hadn’t run it through his rigorous combat simulations like he normally did. His confidence was building for his new duties, especially as his leader hadn’t beaten the ever loving slag out of him for fulfilling them.

Though to be fair, Onslaught was pretty sure Starscream had enjoyed the brutal poundings he so often received. After all, anybody willing to stand behind Glorious Leader during a rabble rousing, empire-wide victory speech and give him turbo-rabbit ears _live on vid_ had to enjoy massive fists stuffed in unmentionable places.

…

 

“Fragging Rat,” Brawl ranted as Hook patched up yet another deep bite in the Combaticon’s pede. “When I get my servos on that piston-licker I’m gonna–”

The Constructicons listened with rapt expressions, nodding in appreciation for his imaginative revenge scenarios. So many good ideas!

Scavenger even took notes.

Then Hook finished and waved the fuming Brawl out of their makeshift cell-turned-workshop. “I’ma kill me that fragger _today_ ,” and his voice trailed off as he left to assemble a Rat-hunting expedition.

Hook watched Brawl leave and then went back to his mulling.

Next to him, something simmering in a crude vat burbled. Hook eyed the concoction with distaste, and stayed far away from it. Mixmaster had complained mightily for the oppressive heat and was cooking up something that would help.

Meanwhile, Long Haul and a few other mechs equipped for tunneling were working at the end of the cave on a special project for Command. The clobbering was going to start soon, apparently, and everyone was excited. Anyone who could help had popped in to lend a servo regardless of assignment, and the end of the cave was a buzzing swarm of working mechs while the rest milled around impatiently.

Bored out of his processor, Hook pulled up Prowl’s last medical scan on file for the thousandth time and poured over it again. It was something to do while they waited for Megatron and Onslaught to come up with a workable plan.

Outside, Hook could hear mechs stomping and kicking trash around the Commons, trying to flush out the Rat.

Scavenger returned a moment later.

He added more useful-looking trash to their supply pile, dumping armfuls of interesting components into organized piles. He was in his element, born for locating treasures in the massive piles of wreck and ruin strewn here and there. The tip of his glossa peeked out from the corner of his mouth while he worked, having retracted his facemask while claiming it helped with the heat. Hook had tried to explain the impossibility of that, as ex-vents were far cooler than the super-heated air around them, but Long Haul had interrupted before he could really get going, as per usual.

Outside the noise died down. It seemed the Rat had better things to do then show up for his own protracted death, much to everyone's intense disappointment.

Hook jotted down another note, humming to himself while lost in thought. He was already intimately familiar with Prowl’s schematics. Once Bombshell had taken control of Prowl, the Constructicons had set up shop in a spare room in Prowl's flat back on Cybertron. Hook had spent every evening servo-deep in Prowl’s components, much to the tactician's hapless horror. The work had been exacting as adjusting and converting him to replace Scrapper had been no easy task.

Back then Prowl had a dual purpose to the Decepticons; to help keep the Autobots in the dark and to serve as a test subject for replacing a lost member of a gestalt.

With Prime’s second-in-command under Decepticon control, the plan had been coming together perfectly. Prowl was to be a throwaway component, a piece of scrap to be used for testing and then discarded.

But the Constructicons hadn’t counted on Prowl being… _Prowl_. They hadn’t planned for the moment the Autobot tactician came online within the Devastator gestalt-mind.  His mind had melded to theirs like he was always meant to be there.

They hadn’t counted on falling for him.

And so they fell, and fell hard, and the tactician wrested full control of them, bypassing Bombshell's control and secretly shutting Megatron out. Using their gestalt bond, Prowl had forced Hook to deactivate Bombshell’s cerebral shell. Once freed, the tactician had coldly calculated and then recalculated his situation. To their endless joy he kept them and took permanent control.

It was a difficult decision for Prowl, but in the end it all boiled down to the numbers, always the numbers. Taking control of the Constructicons meant not only cutting Megatron off from his most powerful asset, it gave Prowl a doorway into the Decepticon’s internal workings.

Prowl had realized he was poised to tear the Decepticons apart from the _inside_.

Initially Prowl had kept hold of Devastator with a brutal mental grip. His domination of them was beyond harsh. He hated them and crushed them mentally in punishment for what they'd done to him. A part of them now, he hurt himself clenching down so hard but he accepted that endless migraine, more than willing to hurt so _they_ suffered too and they loved him even more for it.

Who could doubt his devotion to brutal revenge? He called it punishment, called it justified but they knew the truth. He was beautiful to them, perfect in every way even as he hated them, hated them more than anything.

But he still kept them, wanted them, merciless in his control for his own purposes. He accepted them on some deep and practical level… accepted Devastator as a part of himself. In his mind's eye they were evil, yes, but a necessary evil.

A useful tool.

Then he discovered the depths of their love of destruction and appreciation for chaos. It meant his new teammates were his willing co-conspirators against the Decepticons.

A _very_ useful tool!

Prowl knew Prime wouldn't have approved of his plans. Prime wouldn't have approved of any of this. Perhaps he might have gone to his leader anyway, but for the whispers encouraging him, cheering him on. For the greater good, he had decided and left his leader out of his plans. The peace process would have ended in a well-deserved bloodbath and lots of dead Decepticons… more than enough to hand the Autobots a total victory.

Then the Quintesson ruined everything.

"Look at what I found!" Scavenger thrust a piece of rusted scrap under Hook's wrinkling nasal sensor. "I could convert it into a welder if I can find a burn-tip strong enough!" He was too excited to notice Hook glancing around to verify Long Haul wasn't in audial range.

No. No he was not.

_Well then._

"Lovely." Hook's vocalizer was scathing, almost as harsh as his intense expression. "Your timing is impeccable, _as usual_. I could have used that cycles ago. It's a wonder you get anything accomplished. You could disappear and none of us would even notice except for the missing stench of _garbage_. You are _worse_ than useless."

Scavenger just scurried away with a downcast expression.

Hook watched him leave, disappointed with the lack of response. He had already finished removing the last of the Quint tech from everyone. Even internal weaponry and internal comms were now restored. Unfortunately internal weaponry required more energy than was readily available. But that was Command's problem. Otherwise, there was nothing further to do.

Thus, boredom ensued.

Outside, Skywarp had a crudely tied mesh-balloon filled with something naughty hidden in his servo. Now he was walking all innocent-like across the Commons.

Circling around looking for the perfect victim while trying to appear like he _wasn't_ circling around looking for the perfect victim ("can't a mech take a stroll for frag's sake?!" he yelled up at a suspicious Thundercracker) but his twitching wing tips betrayed his gleeful mood. Mechs familiar with him vacated his immediate vicinity with alacrity.

Long Haul returned to their workshop soon after, his part of the digging complete for now. Looking back over his shoulder at the entrance to the Bailiwick, he could just make out Mixmaster, sitting on the divider between cave and grating.

Dangling from his handmade fishing rod (Scavenger made it for him) was a (questionable-looking) scrap metal donut with colorful metal shaving sprinkles. They had all tried to dissuade him (Scavenger cheering him on behind their backs) but he had a point when he argued that Prowl wasn’t in his right mind.

It was worth a shot, right guys?

Mix made an expert cast and the donut dropped through the slats below. He wiggled the line enticingly as Hook shook his helm in complete disgust.

“Leave him alone,” Long Haul threatened. “Nothing else to do around here anyway.”

Scavenger nodded in agreement, happy to see Hook get slapped down. He was chewing on something of very questionable origin ... the rest of the donuts he'd found minus the one he'd augmented for Mixmaster’s use. _Chomp! munch crunch!_

_Splat-SPLASH!_

Sunstreaker's sudden, enraged howl was audial-shattering even down in the Bailiwick. Following after were reams of cackling laughter and following _that_ was running ... lots of running and Thundercracker’s irritated yell carrying across the open spaces.

Long Haul glanced over where Command had been arguing, only to see they were gone. Moments later the call came through the internal comms.

<This is Megatron, your leader. Everyone capable of combat is to report immediately to the cave–> There was an interruption as someone said something indistinct and Glorious Leader’s deep, cultured vocalizer trailed off for a moment.

<–I am not calling it that. It is an inaccurate use of the word. Everyone is to report to _the cave_ to receive orders. We are taking this prison from Overlord, and the first phase begins immediately. >

Onslaught’s irritated brass blasted through the comms a klik later, <Report in an orderly fashion you idiots! Not all at once! Let’s not let them know we are mobilizing!>

“Finally,” Scavenger said as he started retrieving the swords and other basic blades he had been fashioning out of scrap for anyone that needed them. “Maybe now we can get Prowl back.”

They all rejoiced that he was within reach, but something was definitely wrong with him. Whatever had happened to him had damaged his unique processor, and Prowl's mind was churning, thrashing, his distress roiling through the gestalt bond. They were still blocking him out, his mental scrabbling too distracting for day-to-day functioning.

All but one.

Outside, Mix flinched as he reeled in his cast, empty, the flash of disappointment a pale shadow for the helm-ache permanently storming in his mind. He’d learned to hide his discomfort well, though Long Haul knew and still disapproved.

Mixmaster had not only kept his side of the bond open, he had even dropped his firewalls, all of his protections to let the tactician in, let him draw as close as possible. Mix had grown used to the thrashing pain, the grasping mental fingers and the straining and aching need for mental stimulation of any kind. He endured, he listened, and he called back to Prowl from across their connection, sharing a wordless aching-needing-yearning and a willingness to suffer if it meant the other could draw comfort from him. Prowl kept a death-grip on him, whispering wordless orders lost in translation from his damaged processor, and together they drowned in his misery.

Down below, in the deepest levels, the Autobots were stirring, and Prowl squirmed in his twisting, wordless dreams. Standing above him, Jazz checked him over with a soothing croon, gentle servos gliding over soft mesh. He tried to coax sweet fuel down his intakes.

 _I’m here_ , Mix whispered wordlessly through the bond, the ever useful tool just out of reach.

Prowl’s entrapped mind keened back.

…

 

Mid-day arrived, announced by an ever brightening disk of light from above.

The penitentiary became far too hot for the Autobots. Optimus called off their search for a better shelter and instead they retreated back to their previous resting spot, moving slowly as the shallow space forced them to crouch or move on hands and knees. The under-grate wasn’t meant to be accessible, but it did keep the violence at bay, so the discomfort was well worth it. The deeper shade they retreated to was cooler, and they arranged the unconscious mechs back onto the tarp.

They couldn’t continue like this, and Optimus shared a look with Jazz. _Come with me,_ Optimus gestured at Jazz and Sideswipe. _We will keep looking._ Optimus ordered Perceptor and Wheeljack to remain behind to protect their unconscious companions.

Jazz snapped his fingers at Wheeljack and then pointed at Prowl. The inventor nodded. _Of course I will,_ he promised with a wave of his servos, relieved he was to remain behind. The traveling was hard on him. 

Optimus forayed back into the heat with Jazz and Sideswipe at his heels. They stayed to the shadows, keeping away from the patches of light where the trash was thinner, and they could be spotted. They could hear movement directly above, many careful pede steps from heavy frames, and so they moved with great caution.  Optimus explained himself as he moved, keeping his gestures low-key.

 _We must have_ _shelter. We will search better without carrying the others._

Not long after, muted sounds of fighting drifted down to them. In the floors above them, mechs were clashing quietly, cries of surprise muffled by murderous servos.

 

* * *

 

Long Haul had completed the tunnel in record time.

Slipping out of the new exit in small groups, Megatron’s fighters gathered at the lowest level. They held strips of metal over their heads to disguise themselves and stayed under the cover of the trash above as they massed for a surprise attack.

There were two grid staircases on opposite sides of each level. Each one led up to the next level above. Breaking into two separate teams, one led by Megatron and the other by Onslaught, they began phase one of the plan. Hitting the two staircases simultaneously, they managed to kill-creep through the lowest floor and then crept up to the next one.

Every mech that died was one less crazy for later, and several Junkions were on body patrol, dragging away the dead minions to convert into fuel. They made it up two levels before someone managed to gurgle out a warning loud enough to carry.

Phase two involved vicious, relentless brutality, a furious rush of violence. Overlord peered down from the main courtyard at the carnage with delighted optics. His cheerful voice could be heard calling out orders, but otherwise the maniac stayed back, seeming content to enjoy his birds-eye view of the carnage below.

Shouts from surprised gang members finally alerted the rest of Overlord's gang of the attack. Megatron and his team charged forward as gang members came roaring down the stairwells.

“Onslaught,” Megatron’s confident vocalizer rang out over the din, “as we discussed-”

“BRUTICUS SMASH!”

...

 

A massive roar sounded from above, and the sounds of battle exploded from on high, the attackers no longer bothering to stay quiet.

 _Killin’ each other,_ and Jazz looked alarmed and frustrated. _Should we go back, boss-bot?_

Sideswipe shook his helm and pointed onward while Optimus crouched and stared upward, and then nodded his agreed with the twin.

 _This is madness,_ Optimus gestured in frustration, _but we need shelter. Keep moving._

Jazz started forward again, pensive. _Don’ like this._

They moved with care, staying out of sight as much as possible, and Jazz watched the shadows with sharp optics. His instincts were dead on. Furtive movements in a far corner announced the presence of another mech, and Jazz hissed softly in warning.

The Ammonites stared back, just as wary. The alien gestalt alternated between watching the foraying carrier-mechs and peering up at the carnage above. They startled at every creak and noise, frightened of the mess above them, of the homicidal gangs and cannibalism and death. Deep bite marks marred their frame where the Rat had soothed his hunger, and they jumped at every shadow. They hesitated and tried to approach the Autobots, stepping forward and offering gibberish.

But the Autobots no longer had any trust to offer anyone not of their own little group. They didn't know where they were or why. They didn't understand what all the killing was over. They couldn't ask anyone for answers nor understand those answers even if provided. It was a particular form of vulnerability. 

All they knew for certain was that Overlord was a (disgraced) Decepticon. Megatron was a Decepticon. They knew above them lived glowing red optics and lots of thrashing, hideous death in what was likely some sort of useless faction war. Primus knew it wasn't the first time the Decepticons imploded into stupid bloody infighting over power and control.

They'd embraced their survival instincts now, unable to puzzle through their own mental processes anymore. Logic required thought, but emotion was always at the ready and none of their instincts keened louder than their carrier-coding. The loss of Bumblebee was devastating, but the last straw for Optimus came when internal fluid started to drip ... and then _rain_ down from above as the battle intensified.

Optimus' helm tilted back. Slow and measured, he watched the dripping with harsh, judgmental optics. Within him, his spark grew tainted with surges of cold fear. Then he warned the alien gestalt away with blunt, harsh motions.

 _You_ _stay away from my family_ , was what he meant. At his side, Jazz backed up that sentiment, his cold stare promising death.

The Ammonites saw fit to adhere to the warning, as they could see the carrying mechs have nothing to offer them anyway. At first glance, Optimus and his Autobots seemed worse than useless. Surely their needy bodies required more than they could ever offer in return...

And so the Ammonites kept their distance, finally edging away and out of sight.

...

 

Bruticus had taken the wind from the rival gang’s sails. Working as a battering ram, the combiner had torn through the opposition and roared up the large, blunted stairways, only encountering true resistance at the fourth level.

Over the course of a joor, the Cybertronian fighters began to retreat, forced to give back ground for the massing gang members. They lost two levels, but the vicious fighting allowed enough delay for phase three of the plan.

“Hold the line!” Megatron shouted as Bruticus disassembled.

Megatron knocked Overlord's wretches back, lashing out with the blunt edge of his sword. They were at the stairwell of the second level from the ground, the break point; here was where they would make a stand.

Within moments the Combaticons were fighting alongside him in their single forms, more effective in the cramped spaces of the stairwells. Behind them, work crews had already finished barricading the lowest level, and now focused on the second level stairwells.

**...**

 

 _Over here!_   Sideswipe was beside himself with excitement.

Optimus shuffled over and peered at Sideswipe's discovery, seeing what looked like a small hole in the rock walls of the prison boundary. The small opening was surrounded by piles of heavy rubble, easy to overlook. But it was the smooth metal walls deeper inside that held his attention.

 _There is something down there,_ and Optimus pointed at the walls inside the hollow. Jazz nodded, and once again took point. Moments later his enthusiastic clicks urged the others to follow him inside. They clambered in, crawling through the short tunnel, and the dim light of their optics revealed what appeared to be an open area at the end.

Optimus crawled inside to discover the ancient bones of a _tiny_ cargo ship. From the look of things, it likely ferried the first of the planetary supplies for the construction of the prison.

Already on its last legs at the time, the short range hauler-ship had died mid service. Converted for use as shelter for some of the original workers, the construction company had believed there was no chance it could be rebuilt. Instead of paying to have it hauled away, they had left it buried under the foundation of the prison, building the complex over the top of it.

Optimus clicked in pleasure and Jazz fist-bumped Sideswipe _. Nice find, mi’ mech!_

 _Perhaps we can use this to escape,_ Optimus gestured hopefully.

Peeking around, they discovered that they were not the first to find this little shelter. There were many huddled forms here and there, none living. But it was far cleaner than outside. They were lucky the hatch of the old ship was stuck half closed, baring the filth from spilling over. But best of all, it was far cooler inside.

 _Let’s go get the others,_ and Optimus turned back. His steps were lighter and his optics brightening. He was eager to share their discovery and to get the unconscious mechs out of the heat and sludge.

 _Should search the rest of it to be safe,_ Jazz pointed down the two dark corridors leading further into the ship. But a pained roar sounded far above, and Optimus winced.

Jazz made a slashing gesture. _Forget it. Better in here then out there. Fraggin’ Decepticons._

They hurried back to collect the others. Once back under the slag pile, they didn't bother trying to explain. They just grabbed everyone and bolted for their new little shelter, urging Wheeljack and Perceptor to hurry. Shuffling along, they helped each other through the sludge, Optimus' soft, coaxing clicks keeping everyone moving.

Returning to the hollow, they helped the rest of the Autobots into the open space of the little ship. Cool air washed over them, and Wheeljack's snuffles of relief echoed around the little room.

Optimus hesitated, but then dragged a bulkhead over and closed off the entrance to help keep the heat out. Now there was no light, but their glowing optics served well enough.

 _No one goes outside,_ Optimus waved at them. _It’s not safe._

Everyone nodded and then Optimus ripped one of their blankets into pieces. Handing some to Jazz, they both helped wipe the sludge off the others and themselves.

Spirits rose as they were cleaner and their internal temperatures dropped to sane levels. Ratchet even stopped his grumbling – a miracle! – until Sideswipe poked him to make sure he was still alive.

_GRUMBLE!_

Yep, he sure was, and then Optimus swatted the mischievous red twin away, palm flat against a naughty bare aft. Bad Lambo!

 _Need to explore the rest o’ this ship,_ Jazz insisted, pointing at his optics and then down the two dark hallways.

Optimus nodded, not wanting to meet with any unpleasant surprises, either. Who knew what might be lurking in the darkness ... and Optimus frowned slightly. _Get everyone situated and we will go,_ and he made a circle with his fingers to make himself clear, pointing at a cleaner corner.

Sideswipe scowled at all the little bodies. He huffed with a sharp negative gesture. _Need to clean this out. Not sleeping in here with all these **.**_

The rusted wreck was empty but for many, many small bodies. No small number of littler species had accepted this place as a peaceful tomb. Many had chosen to die here with some dignity instead of facing the horrors raging in the open areas above.

 _That one is all kinds o’_ _creepy,_ Jazz motioned, faking a shiver to emphasize his opinion.

Optimus could see a flash of silver in the saboteur’s servos. The sharp little blade was back, held tight in his fingers. He could see what unnerved Jazz. One of the bodies had a _much_ larger chassis than the others. It used to be a mech of some kind, though not Cybertronian.

No doubt it’s flattened, crab-like body was the reason it managed to make it down to the lower levels, slipping though the gaps on its side. Leaning against the wall in the corner of the decrepit ship, the alien body hung loose. Its mouth gaped in eerie death.

 _Unsettling,_ Optimus could only agree. _Thankfully not a threat to us._

With that, he gestured for Perceptor to remain behind in the first room, which he was certain was the main cargo bay. He was to keep watch over the unconscious Autobots. Then Optimus separated the rest into two teams and sent them off to explore the ship.

Optimus hefted a small, yet stout-looking pipe for defense. He beckoned Wheeljack to come with him and then waited patiently as the scientist cast about for something suitably blunt to hold as a weapon. Then they ventured down one rusted, mangled corridor, moving slow and cautious for their rounded, off-balanced frames.

Meanwhile, Jazz and Sideswipe took the opposite one, the saboteur still holding his little blade in his fingers.

The expedition ended not even a minute later. Both corridors led to the side doors that joined up in a tiny cockpit, barely large enough for one mech. The little exploration expedition met up outside and Jazz’s soft chuckles filled the dusty air. The egg-ship had been bigger. From the look of it, the little supply ferry had been used by a _much_ smaller species.

 _Already feelin’ sorry for whoever has to fly this rust bucket,_ and Jazz pointed at the tiny bridge with its bitty little chairs. Even stripped, it was clear guiding and flying the ship would be an exercise in frustration. His grin was rueful, as he knew it would fall to him anyway. He was their smallest pilot. The cockpit was a complete mess and the small, useless chairs would have to be removed.

Then Wheeljack pointed at something below with a soft hiss. They could see an empty space where an engine used to be, along with spaces for every other piece of useful tech, all of it missing.

Sideswipe snorted and walked away, back towards the main room, the only room. The rest of the space was mere short corridor and cockpit, and beneath that small spaces for machinery, dusty and empty.

 _This ship will never fly again,_ and Optimus slumped, disappointed that their shelter was nothing more than rusty bones. He strode away, dropping the pipe and plodding back towards the sleeping mechs.

 _It's safe, all safe,_ and Optimus waved reassurance at a curious Perceptor, who got to his pedes as finger snapping sounded from down the tiny hall. Wheeljack was calling for him, and Percy headed towards the summons with brighter optics.

Optimus remained behind to watch over the sleeping mechs. Hands on his hips, he looked around the main room, but found he was unable to remain in a bad mood. Being cleaner and cooler helped settle him. Carrier instincts comforted by the enclosed space and quiet, he felt little movements from inside, and laid his palm over the spot where his unborn kicked and played within him. He relaxed and came to a quick decision.

 _... This will work for now_.

Then he clicked loud summons over his shoulder. Several bursts later, and his Autobots wobbled back towards him for a tactical huddle.

Jazz appeared, walking soft and silent, and shortly after Wheeljack and Perceptor arrived back from the cockpit. They were trying to have some sort of conversation from the look of their swift back and forth gestures. Optimus couldn’t follow any of it, but their keen interest was encouraging.

 _Having a communal task, no matter how impossible, would do much to take processors off our predicament,_ he realized.

Then Optimus strode forward and snapped his fingers to gain their attention. His determined optics shined brighter, and everyone perked up. Then he ordered Perceptor and Wheeljack to start rebuilding the ship, while the rest would assist and also forage in groups to collect supplies from outside. It took several attempts before they understood what he meant, but only because they were dead certain they were misunderstanding him.

Wheeljack and Perceptor shared a long, incredulous look. Then they exploded into frantic hand-waving, their expressions disbelieving as they protested.

Optimus revved his engine and waved away the complaints. _Try your best. We will cobble together the rest as opportunities arise._ He took one hand off his hip to point at the wreck around them, replacing it with gusto, helm high and firm. They could see their Prime wasn't interested in arguments or defeatist attitudes _._

The scientist and engineer shared another look – _he must be joking!_ – but Optimus turned his back on the negativity and strode stately away. He headed towards Jazz to try and explain their new tasks.

The assignment seemed impossible, but after a last few complaints – _cannot be serious, how will we even get it past the grates, rust buckets don’ fly ‘less you throw them_ – everyone who was able scurried around and got to work cleaning up their new home.

There were crashes not long after. Sounds of dragging metal and heavy, tromping pedes drifted down from outside. Many vocalizers were calling and shouting and yelling incomprehensible things and some of the voices seemed familiar.

 _What’s goin’ on out there?_  Jazz gestured with wary curiosity.

Optimus shook his helm and put his hands back on his hips. _Don’t know. Nothing good. Everyone stays inside._ He turned around and one quick headcount later he discovered he was one Lambo short and went straight back to panicking.

_Where’s Sideswipe?!_

…

"Get the chains in place!" Onslaught coughed while blocking a thrown projectile, kicking it back when he realized it was a malfunctioning explosive. His frame was already blackened in several places, but he, like the others, endured and kept right on maiming.

The fighting was brutal, but it helped that Mixmaster’s little project had been ready by the time of the surprise attack. A delightful cooling gel had materialized from the vat of chemicals and Mixmaster had basked in the praise and appreciative back-whacks. Not even Hook’s best attempts at nonconstructive criticism could bring him down from his high. Smeared over their frames, the gel kept them vastly cooler, allowing for frenzied fighting without overheating.

Also helpful was the gang member’s reluctance for hand to hand combat. They had no real motivation unless Overlord was nearby, though he was always peering down from above. They had already sampled Cybertronian-style combat and like most, found it not to taste.

So many blunt injuries. So much hands-on violence. Cybertronians seemed to enjoy getting up close and personal. Injuries inflicted by them were always brutal and maiming. Long accustomed to war, they tended to snatch at any opportunity to injure. It also meant they had unbelievably high pain tolerances; dismemberment should always be a devastating game-ender, but more often than not a Cybertronian fighter just shrugged that mess off with a groan and kept on fighting.

Lost an arm? Good thing there's two, eh?! Shattered pede? Walk it off, soldier!

Meanwhile Sunstreaker and Breakdown held up the gating as titan-steel cuffs locked the gates closed. It was a crude obstacle, but effective. The chains snapped together, the gate held its own, and the two lower levels were theirs for now, more than enough to work with.

"Overlord could break through this,” Onslaught huffed as he whacked at the grate-gate, “but he will have to get close to do it. We could do some damage to him in the meantime. He still has optics, still has softer spots. He would be a fool to let us stab at him through the grating."

"It will have to do." Megatron staggered back and leaned on the grating wall, vents heaving. Mid-day was well past, and the cooling gel was starting to wear off. Behind the barricade, the gang members were backing off as well, many of them overwhelmed by the heat.

The star above was burning hatefully, its very continence visible, peering down at the commotion from on high through the hole in the ceiling. The fierce movements needed for battle were inadvisable for all due to the dangerous heat.

 _Mixmaster’s concoction has been most useful,_ Megatron realized as he rubbed more across his neck cables, the cooling affect most welcome. They would need much more of it, and it might mean the possibility of fighting through the day for the final battle, a critical advantage over Overlord’s mechs.

For now, the fighting was over. They remained cautious as projectiles could still be thrown through the slats, and if they had a secret tunnel, there was a good chance the enemy did too.

Still, it was a start.

Now they could move about. Best of all, they were only a few levels away from the air conditioning unit. They couldn’t do anything about the damaged prison ceiling, but fixing internal temperature control would go a long way to make their lives more comfortable. At least until they could escape.

“I don’t believe this!” Sunstreaker kicked at the grating as Breakdown rubbed at his face plates with a groan.

Megatron followed their gaze and saw the prison’s fluid distillation/replication unit. Some compounds were easy to manufacture, and basic fluidic oil was one of them; elementary, the equivalent of water for organics. The unit was … _mmh_ , he could see the problem. It was down beneath the lowest level of grating. The service hatch was locked closed, the machine itself off-line and just out of reach.

“Unfortunate,” Megatron waved his servos dismissively, “but far from essential. There is plenty of fluid from the fuel we consume.”

Sunstreaker looked back at him in disbelief. “Not essential? How are showers not _essential_?!” The last word was roared out, and then he stomped away in disgust, kicking through the trash. Breakdown trailed glumly after him.

Swindle chortled, schadenfreude sensors tingling delightfully. “What’s the point of showers when we live in a rubbish hole?” The rest of the Combaticons just shrugged. Brawl scratched at his aft, hesitated, brought his fingers to his nasal sensor and then promptly fainted.

Onslaught crossed the space between them in an instant. Kneeling, he checked over Brawl’s numerous injuries for anything critical, but Megatron clasped his shoulder and pulled him back. “Heat exhaustion. Give him a moment. It was a hard-won victory today.”

Megatron knelt over Brawl and pulled out a small tin, “I want a team of heavy fighters on these barricades at all times,” he said as he smeared fresh cooling gel over Brawl’s neck. He was satisfied when Brawl jolted back online, already recovering. “Have them take shifts. I am going down below for a bit. After, I will join the first watch.”

Onslaught was already muttering orders into his comms as Brawl lumbered to his pedes and kicked at some scrap in uncharacteristic embarrassment. Onslaught called out after Megatron’s retreating back plates, “mind some company?”

Megatron waved at him indifferently, already distracted, already heading down towards the lower grating. Finally a chance to find and speak with Prime, and if all went well they could catch up tonight in his cell-room.

Among other things...

 

* * *

 

“Captain,” the sub-commander interrupted Captain K'gard’s quiet musing. “We have a situation, sir.”

“We are deep in Galactic Council space, sub-commander. What the hell could have happened to warrant such alarm?”

“We have been contacted by the _Retribution,_ a Mauler prison ship. They were on route to Uytis in the Mora’ja sector and encountered a Quintesson battleship, destroyer-class. They engaged the Quintesson, but were forced to withdraw after taking damage. They are returning to Hyperon for repairs and are requesting we intervene on their behalf.”

Captain K'gard scowled. “The Quintesson intend to re-collect their battle slaves.”

“It appears that way,” the sub-commander agreed.

Captain K'gard folded his primary pair of arms across his front, considering. Uytis was well outside his normal patrol and jurisdiction. He would have to justify leaving his current course, not to mention the expense to the taxpayers ... the sheer volumes of paperwork involved was just ...

... _ugh._

“That sounds like a Mauler problem to me, sub-commander.”

“Sir, we are the only ship in range that could respond fast enough to counter them.” The sub-commander lowered his voice. “And if we don’t stop them now, we will just have to deal with the Cybertronians later.”

“An excellent point, sub-commander. Very well,” Captain K'gard decided. “Set course for Uytis. I would have words with the Quintesson battle-commander.”

 

* * *

 

Hot rays of light streamed down from between the slag cover above, creating small patches of light amid yawning darkness. Flecks of ash and dust floated through the air, highlighted in the streams of light, swirling then vanishing as they floated into the dark patches.

Overwhelmed with curiosity for the distant sounds of battle, Sideswipe crept forward on his hands and knees, careful to keep to the dark patches. He did his best to shove away the coding-fear while he listened to the mess above. A front-liner for most of his life, the roar of battle invigorated him, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. He was still careful, though, as he knew he was in no condition for a scrap. He hesitated before peering up through each patch of light, careful to avoid bringing attention to himself. Distracted, he crept further and further away from their protective hollow, well past what he had intended.

Shortly after, the fighting seemed to end.

A familiar shout caught Sideswipe's audial and he cocked his helm. He couldn't understand the glyphs, but the voice ... so very familiar. Then the grating above him shook with the weight and treads of heavy pedes. The tromping of Decepticon fighters heading back towards their secret exit on the ground level rattled the grating above him.

He heard a powerful vocalizer begin calling, the glyphs repeated over and over, as if the voice was trying to summon someone. The words were meaningless, but the deep, rich voice grew more and more frustrated when there seemed no response.

Then amidst the exodus above Sideswipe saw a flash of gold.

_...Sunny?_

It was there and gone, spotted through the mini-mountain of slag above in a bare instant. But he surged towards the flash, unsure yet hopeful. He worked his way through the tar sludge in a crouch for the low grating above him, frantic to catch a glimpse, but also struggling to remain unseen. His spark pounded in dueling rhythms of hope and fear.

_Was that … Sunny?_

The air out here … so damned hot and his body struggled to keep him cool enough to function. Even in the shade. He knew he should go back. Prime would be furious, but he kept looking anyway. His half-spark pulsed hot and distressed and hopeful within him.

Then the voice came again, answering the richer voice with rude tones and one last flash of gold. It _was_ him. It had to be. He knew that angry voice anywhere, that particular shade of yellow. But what was he doing out here with the Decepticons? Was he a prisoner? Why were they fighting? Was he okay?

Sideswipe had no idea, but he _needed_ an answer to that last question, at the very least.  But though he kept looking, he couldn't find Sunny. He hissed in disappointment as he turned back towards the shelter, panting vents whistling through his denta. Then he startled as several heavy pedes immediately tromped toward him, kicking at the trash.

“I hear you down there,” Brawl huffed, “you dirty little Rat-bastard!”

Sideswipe fell back as he saw a Decepticon he sort of recognized charging at him from a break in the garbage. The green-grey mech was leaning forward and unleashed a blast of aggressive-sounding gibberish. Sideswipe immediately darted away, back towards the shelter. He was under no illusions of fighting off an attack in his state.

His carrier coding urged him on, filling him with sick fear.  Sideswipe hated the feeling almost as much as the mess in his valve that made it so hard to flee.

Sideswipe didn’t see the startled looks or how the others pulled Brawl back and pushed him away. He was too busy retreating to see Brawl raise his servos in irritated surrender. Then a hand thrust through the trash and down through the grating and grabbed him and he heard another blast of gibberish.

“I have him,” Thundercracker called out. His fingers were tight – but not _too_ tight – around Sideswipe’s arm and under his shoulder. "Primus, he feels way too hot."

More gibberish.

Sideswipe twisted around with another hiss as he heard heavy pede-falls approach. He struck at the hand grasping him, though the grip was not painful, only unyielding.

"Careful sir," Thrust placed his hand on Thundercracker's shoulder. "He could have a weapon."

“He’s not happy," Thundercracker murmured while shrugging off Thrust's servo. "And he’s carrying for sure.”

No, Sideswipe _definitely_ wasn’t happy.

Sideswipe squirmed as Thundercracker's other servo joined the first and rolled him over onto his back. He punched at the dark servos holding him, but his fists bounced off the thick plating. Not so much as a dent, but now Sideswipe’s hands hurt while strong, careful fingers felt over his frame. They hesitated when they encountered his healing cuts. The touch grew even lighter as they gently traced over the evidence of sickening brutality. They moved lower, feeling over his belly. There was definitely a bump there, though only starting to get pronounced. 

Many servos, black, green, and other colors began parting the trash to get a better look at him. But there was no gold among them. His spark sank as he looked up into bright red optics, the mech holding him framed by dingy blue wings.

Questioning glyphs started raining down upon him, insistent and incomprehensible. He had no choice but to remain silent while growing more alarmed by the klik. He searched his captor's faces while trapped on his back, alternating surges of coding terror and his own natural aggression confusing his spark.

Expecting cruelty, mockery, Sideswipe was taken aback to find only shocked dismay in the red optics peering down at him.

…

Onslaught yanked Brawl back like a turbo hound ruining a trophy petro-pheasant. "Ease _off_ , damn it! Megatron was trying to call them out to talk! Don’t you _ever_ pay attention, you glitching murder machine?!"

Hanging back, the Junkions watched the hullabaloo with detached interest. "Sometimes smaller mechs down below," Wreck-Gar muttered to them. "Can't reach them, usually."

Brawl grumbled for the fuss as he retreated a respectable distance away, still wheezing for the heat. "Thought he was the Rat, that’s all."

“Clear the trash so we can have a look at him,” Megatron ordered. “With luck their injuries will be a simple matter to treat-”

"No," Thundercracker flared his wings as Onslaught helped clear the trash. "I can feel him, down to his mesh. He's … confused and not alright.”

Thundercracker felt along the soft mesh, wings twitching as his fingers encountered latches all over the frightened carrier’s body. Two larger ones were on his back ... was this mech once a flight frame? He wasn’t sure. Then his fingers traced over evidence of deep, brutal cuts and the mech shivered in his grip, squirming for the gentle exploratory touches.

"No armor? A NAIL … a civilian for certain then," Megatron murmured as he knelt down and helped clear away more of the trash. He leaned over to peer at the captured mech. “You must remember not everyone wears reinforced armor. Lighter plating used to be quite common–”

“No, you don't understand, sir. I can feel his _protoform_. He used to have plating.”

Thundercracker went quiet as the last of the trash fell away and they all just ... stared. All of them fell into stunned silence for his terrible condition, the depravity defying belief.

The light further revealed the state of the skinny mech under the grating and Thundercracker took in the pitiful sight. The bruising was deep and extensive, and like the rest of them, he showed signs of recent freedom from shackles and there was evidence of a welded collar. Looking over the bare mesh, his red optics finally dropped to the exposed interface array below.

One of the Junkions started to titter at the bare ports, but Wreck-Gar stuffed a fist into the mech’s crass, insensitive mouth with a sharp hiss.

“What the hell is in his _valve_?” Thundercracker finally broke the painful silence. Angry engine rumbles followed that as optics dropped and widened. “What the _frag_ happened to him?”

Thrust was standing at Thundercracker’s side, trying to function as his right hand mech, and was about to offer his opinion when a waft of scent from the mech below instantly caught his attention. “Do you smell that?” he mumbled instead, taking in a deep draft with flaring wings.

Megatron rumbled.

He could smell it too. The alluring scent of the carrying mech excited his nasal sensors, sending warmth down his lines and priming his array. Something Hook had mentioned in offhand sprang to mind, a warning he had given about carrier pheromones and activating the guardian protocols of un-sired mechs if anyone was so careless to get sparked up. His coding was already activated, but it may be best to limit exposure to Prime’s crew to any mech that wasn’t already active.

"Look at the pattern of his cuts," Onslaught pointed at the slices in the mech's bare mesh, his angry vocalizer breaking Megatron’s train of thought. "They've skinned him alive."

Thundercracker kicked Thrust out of his personal space. "He has weld-marks across his head, too. They may have tampered with his processor."

Onslaught watched as the captive mech squirmed, unsure how they were going to get him out from under the grating. He was just about to say as much when he caught sight of the Quintesson brand.

Onslaught asked over their private line and saw Megatron’s scowl deepen for the realization of an ugly reality.

“Stripping,” Megatron hissed back, not bothering with private comms. Prime’s words rang in his audials from his memory-files. “Op…Prime said the Quintesson were going to do something called _stripping_ to him and the other captives with him."

Onslaught barely heard his leader’s words, too distracted. He kept hoping Brawl wouldn’t notice the brand mark, at least until he had a chance to break the news himself, now that it was unavoidable. If Brawl did notice there would be _frag all_ chance of keeping this from spreading to the rest of the team. For the first time he was grateful for Brawl's consistent tenancy to overlook and completely miss such critical minutia as–

“Heh, look at that. He's got a brand,” Brawl said while Onslaught rubbed at his blast mask as if for a sudden helm ache. “It’s the same one Blast Off had.”

There was a long moment as circuits began to make connections that Onslaught would really rather they not. He could almost hear the gears grinding and he winced. “Brawl…”

“Hey Onslaught,” Brawl's vocalizer reflected the ugly glower that was starting to spread across his hidden face plates. But he was interrupted before he could finish.

 “Later, Brawl." Megatron knelt down and began to speak to the mech, his glyphs calm and soothing as he asked for his name and rank. He frowned as the battered mech didn’t respond to his questions and asked, "…do we know who this is?”

After trying to coax him for his name with no luck, Thundercracker resorted to a few gentle nudges. But it became clear the mech either wouldn’t or couldn’t speak. Their credits were on couldn't; the mech didn’t respond to any questions, and beyond that, there was no glint of understanding in his darting optics. 

“No clue,” Thundercracker finally said.

"This must be one of Prime's mechs," Megatron rose to his pedes. “ _This_ is what the Quintesson were planning for him. They will pay dearly for this atrocity.”

Thundercracker stared up at him. "Are you saying this happened to all of them? They _all_ look like this?"

Megatron hesitated. It defied belief, and his promises of vengeance didn’t seem adequate even as they left his vocalizer. Not for this sickening horror.

Brawl growled and stormed away, furious for the implications for his team mate but helpless to do anything about it. Blast Off was still alright, but from the sound of things, they were on a countdown to rescue him. The clock was ticking and here he was, in the middle of fragging _nowhere_ doing _slag all_. The Junkions scattered out of Brawl’s way, but crept back to stare at the naked carrier-mech with fascination.

After a brief hesitation, Onslaught started after him. "Brawl! Hold up!"

The little carrying mech took advantage of their distraction. Twisting and rolling like a sharkticon, he broke loose from Thundercracker's grip, though it was more that the seeker was unwilling to keep his hold if it meant further hurting the other.

_“Frag!”_

**...**

 

Sideswipe scrambled for deeper cover but a flash of wide blue eyes ahead made him groan even as he aimed for them.

_Busted._

Prime had come looking for him, and he could see his leader’s frightened, determined optics glowing in the darkness. He could hear the Decepticons were right behind him, blasting gibberish at his back. They were kicking through the trash as they gave chase.

Sideswipe heard Prime clicking, urging him on, and then several large Decepticons tromped into view. He saw Prime scowl and squint at the aggressors, staring at them for a long moment, struggling to identify them.

Then Sideswipe made it to him and Prime pushed him past and toward the hollow entrance, servos just a micron harsher than normal, even as Sideswipe started to gesture apologies.

Prime began to retreat as well, until a very familiar voice gave him pause.

**...**

 

“After him!” Megatron darted after the escaping carrier-mech. “I want them up with us!”

He was certain if they could catch the little mech they could then use him to coax Prime out as well. But there was no easy way to follow the fleeing mech.

Not with so much slag in the way.

Megatron, the Junkions, and Thundercracker gave chase, and then Megatron caught sight of a second face plate under the grating. The larger mech was waving and urging the battered mech towards him, lip plating tight in a thin line. The smaller mech reached the larger and slipped past him and disappeared under the thicker piles of slag.

Megatron got a good, long look at the second mech - that _can’t_ be - and then rumbled low in his chest.

“Prime?”

**...**

 

Optimus whirled, staring back at the group of mechs in the distance.

He'd charged out to go find his arrant front-liner and had fully expected to find Sideswipe in trouble, but ... _vector sigma_. 

He squinted past the mess above the slats, but his optics continued to malfunction. The lenses would only focus on the near grating. At best, all he could make out was a dark mass and a blue mass ... but only the vaguest of shapes and colors. He quickly grew frustrated for the lack of clarity. To add to his confusion, there were several voices speaking gibberish, and it was all useless to him.

_Can’t speak to them._

He didn’t even trust them enough to bother trying. His carrier coding lurched within him, no longer recognizing the sire of his sparkling. Their initial contact was too brief, the lack of support _damning_ and instead the coding sluiced cold terror down his lines, urging him to flee from the dangerous strangers. But Optimus knew that rumbling voice and he was certain the dark mass was Megatron.

 _I am not happy with you,_ and Optimus scowled up at the dark form. _I am not happy with what is happening here. This violence is inexcusable._

Optimus made a harsh motion, and he heard Megatron rumble something down to him in reply. He didn't understand, and quickly realized the futility of trying to communicate.

_This is pointless._

There was one last blast of gibberish from Megatron as he retreated, but he didn’t slow. He had no idea what was happening or why. He wasn't willing to offer any trust to the mechs above. He was sick and tired of the brutality and unwilling to risk his mechs getting further hurt. Whatever was happening outside...

…he wanted nothing to do with it.

**...**

 

Megatron stared down at his counterpart, completely stunned.

It _was_ Prime, and his frame was every bit as bare as the smaller mech's. He was much smaller without his plating, and his lower abdominals were extended, clearly well along.

Next to the wide-eyed Megatron and completely unnoticed, Wreck-Gar looked like he’d been gut shot. “Lucy?” he whispered and his eyes dropped over the battered body below, down to the belly. He took a faltering step forward, even as one of the other Junkions grabbed his arm and shook him. “Not Lucy,” the other Junkion whispered, his golden optics soft with equal measures sympathy and concern. But Wreck-Gar shoved him away without a word.

Megatron let out the breath he'd been holding, already re-assessing the situation. He could see that Prime had the same disconnected look in his optics the battered mech had. Prime didn't react to his designation and seemed to have trouble focusing on their faces. Clearly some sort of optical malfunction ... one more injury to add to his harrowing list of worries for his brutalized counterpart.

Megatron tensed further when Prime ignored their calls and began to disappear back into the darkness. An instant later and he charged after Prime, ignoring the twisting complaint from his healing knee. Diving forward, he landed on his front and thrust both servos through the slats and grabbed Prime. His forearms and hands gripped the other mech and held on, careful but _tight_.

_Can't let you go like this. **Not** letting you go like this.  
_

A blast of scent wafted up from Prime's shocked, thrashing body. It filled Megatron's nasal sensors and punched him square in the processor. A surge of electric heat roared through his lines. He breathed in Prime's scent, running hungry fingers over the bare body.

But moments later Prime's panic and the feel of Prime's fist colliding with his face plates registered. The hit all but bounced off his thick armature, but more followed. The strikes kept time to the throbbing in his array as Prime struggled in his arms. Soft, frantic huffs were the only sound beyond the scrabbling of Prime's pedes as he kicked out, trying to use his weight to work himself free.

Megatron was certain he heard Prime's knuckles buckle. He swallowed thickly and remembered himself. "Easy," he murmured down to the struggling body. He began adjusting his grip, trying to get a better hold on his counterpart. The last thing he wanted was Prime to hurt himself trying to hurt _him_.

Instead, Megatron rolled Prime over onto his front. One arm twisted through the grating to wrap around Prime, under his arms to help control Prime's movements. It left the other servo free to explore, checking him, touching him, palm flat and open and fingers gentle and probing.

Oh _Primus_ but he was too hot, far too hot. The loss of his outer plating, his metal skin-shell was clearly devastating. It was no small amount of his mass. His unprotected mesh was burning hot, the internal fans roaring, fighting a losing war to keep Prime cool enough to function.

Megatron realized _that_ , at least, was something he could help with immediately. He risked freeing one hand to snap out the tin containing the rest of his cooling gel. He gathered a generous amount and smeared the gel over Prime's neck cables first, his fingers slick over the soft mesh.

Optimus jerked for the stroking, frightened.

Then he blinked in surprise as the cooling gel took effect. Soothing pleasure followed after each sweep of Megatron’s fingers over his battered body. He huffed again, and the cold terror surging through him confused him. Normally he might calm for such kindly treatment, and yet the coding continued to dump fear down his lines. He couldn’t think through what he was feeling and why and so continued to squirm.

"Sir," Thrust looked worried, "There's no way you can get him through the grate here."

Megatron sucked in deep pulls of breath. His processor was now interpreting sensory data only his guardian protocols could make sense of, and the data rush was exotic … utterly intoxicating. Fluid was trickling down from Megatron now, his own code-elicited musk dripping down in hot drops over Prime's bare mesh.

Megatron winced, embarrassed, but there was nothing he could do.

It was Prime’s own scent-markers that triggered this reaction. Prime's gestation tank was low and he desperately needed attention. His need was manifesting in a way that a simple beast would understand, and Megatron's frame ached to provide. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice, but Prime's nasal sensor wrinkled a bit, helm dipping, tasting the air, and Megatron wanted nothing more than to bury his intakes into Optimus' mouth and valve.

"Lord Megatron," Thundercracker knelt down as he spoke, "The other Autobots are here."

Megatron scowled. "Don't call me that."

Otherwise distracted, Megatron was enchanted with the needy, squirming body so close and yet too far away. He rubbed more of the gel over Prime's body, down over the abdominals. Megatron was further gratified when Prime stopped heaving and closed his intakes. He started venting in more normal rhythms for his lower body temperature.

"There," Megatron murmured in a blue audial, "much better, isn't it?"

Blue optics peered up at him and huffed as Megatron’s fingers traced back over the abdominals, rubbing in circles. Megatron felt movement and rumbled in delight, even as Prime flinched with embarrassment.

“Oh it’s not so bad. Barely noticeable,” Megatron assured him with a wide, teasing grin before remembering he was going to be _supportive_ and sensitive and absolutely _not_ an aft-head. Fortunately Prime couldn’t understand a word he was saying, only the tone, which remained soothing.

Prime's vents were much calmer. He stared up at Megatron with wide eyes, intakes working. He seemed torn between terror and curiosity and there was a definite undercurrent of sheer need… but still no words. His forced silence was proof that something was dreadfully wrong with him.

Tracing the surgery wound, Megatron’s fingers dared to drop and gently inspect the Quint tech squatting in Prime’s valve. Feeling the harsh device, Megatron knew instantly he best not just rip it out. He heard a soft, strangled whine from Prime as the tips of his fingers stroked over the soft valve rim, stretched tight around the misery.

Megatron could feel Prime's distress, and his coding surged within him. It shunted more aggression down his lines, urging him to attack and kill whatever was causing his mate misery. _Useless dreck of a beast-code… worse than useless. This problem requires thought, not mindless thrashing._

"You should let Prime go." Thundercracker stepped forward, placing his servo on Megatron's shoulder. He shook Megatron then, hesitant but insisting. He was growing bolder, finally.

Megatron shook off the coding-haze with great reluctance. He squeezed the still frightened Prime closer to him, frustrated for the grating. He was certain that with full access and enough time, he could coax the other to relax and accept him. He wanted nothing more than to hold on, but he could see fearful, darting blue optics under the edge of the darkest patch of cover.

 _These mechs are mine as well,_ he decided, and terrifying them in their condition was worse than useless.

He couldn’t force Prime out from under the grating, though he would have if he could. There was nothing further he could do right now, not without a plan in place. With one last, long rub along Prime's neck cables, Megatron finally released him. He winced when Prime bolted towards the four sets of fearful blue optics without looking back.

Prime disappeared from view even as Megatron called out to him one last time. He _did_ respond to Megatron's vocalizer, clearly hearing Megatron calling out to him. But his only response was to shiver, a full body tremble as he fled.

Prime’s disapproval of the slaughter had been obvious, but it was also clear he didn’t understand the situation in the slightest. Overlord was no Decepticon: he was a homicidal maniac, and there was no other option but to fight for their lives.

**...**

 

The others were waiting for Optimus as he darted down the hollow, tumbling into their little shelter. He fell on his side for long moments, breathing heavily. He felt overwhelmed for the stress of being held captive, even for the short time he’d been helpless. Too much fear, so much of it, pouring down his lines. It was ridiculous, useless and uncontrollable.

Finally Optimus calmed enough to sit up, and the next thing he did was check his mechs. All present and accounted for, all hovering around him worriedly. The others had grown nervous for his absence and gone looking for him and Sideswipe. By the looks on their faces, Optimus could tell Sideswipe was contrite and Jazz was very upset.

That entire situation could have gone horribly wrong, and Optimus gave Jazz’s arm a comforting squeeze.

But then he focused on the sheepish Sideswipe like a heat-seeking missile. _I ordered you to stay inside!_ and Optimus gestured harshly at Sideswipe, beyond upset. The sheer terror he'd felt when he couldn't find the aggressive little Lambo and when he’d been grabbed morphed into hot anger. _It’s not safe and there is nothing out there worth dying for!_

Sideswipe raised his servos in meek surrender as his leader was _torqued_.

Hovering close, several of the others moved toward Optimus, scenting the air. They were reassured by his anger, mentally associating him with safety. That, and they could smell the musk on him, could smell the hot scent of an aroused guardian. They were all needing, and all crept closer to him.

Jazz touched the gel coating Optimus’ neck and core and legs, the cooling sensation startling him. He hesitantly rubbed some on his own neck, and his engine rumbled in delight for the coolness. He gave Optimus a sheepish look even as he ran his hand over the bemused Prime’s body, gathering up some and heading over towards Prowl.

The others reached out with curious fingers, and Optimus found himself being both intentionally and unintentionally rubbed down by three sets of respectful, yet delighted servos. He shivered for the touches and rubbing as the others dipped fingers into his creases, gathering up dabbles of gel to smear on themselves with excited little engine rumbles ... and perhaps he was enjoying the touches a little too much.

Optimus’ spike peeked out of his sheath and he curled over in a mild overload, already on edge from the strong guardian-musk thick in his nasal sensors. He blushed, embarrassed for it, but no one seemed to mind in the slightest.

In fact, Wheeljack and Perceptor glanced at each other and ‘Jack made a little motion with his clever fingers. They both sidled away together for a little mutual relief while Sideswipe went off by himself into the small corridors. Jazz didn’t even bother with unnecessary propriety and was leaning against the wall, half facing away with optics closed, rubbing fingers along his spike, working himself towards overload to relieve the charge humming in his systems.

Everyone was humming down below for the musk, though fortunately the scent was already fading, drying out and flaking away.

Outside, the clunk-tromp of many pedes moving around rattled for joors after. Sometimes eerily familiar voices. But Optimus closed up the entrance, and they all nestled together in the dark and he wouldn't allow anyone to leave. No one left for the rest of the day, and it wasn’t long before they drifted off to recharge, exhausted by the day’s events.

Sideswipe was the last to drift away. He kept glancing out towards the hatch, hope flaring in little flashes of gold.

…

 

Megatron rumbled in quiet disappointment as Prime disappeared, but shook himself.

_No matter. Optimus is too injured and confused to understand what is happening here. I will save him first and foremost, and then he can yell at me over it later, after he is restored to himself._

Megatron straightened and turned towards the others and began issuing orders. “I want this miserable mess piled up and cleared out.”

The Junkions looked scandalized and Wreck-Gar coughed.

Megatron sighed.

“ _Your_ mess is fine. _This_ mess must be cleared out. I want an unrestricted view of the lower level.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to leave them some cover?” Thundercracker asked while peering up through the slats towards the courtyard, though he couldn’t make anything out. “This is still a contested area.”

“I don’t intend them to stay down here for so long,” Megatron answered as he kicked at the trash. “I need access if we are to coax them to relocate behind the energy shield.”

Thundercracker nodded and opened his comm line. “I will get a work crew together, then.”  

Megatron stood back, and stared down into the darkness, standing there for some time. The grating would keep him from forcing the issue, but this entire situation was _beyond_ unacceptable. They were in a damned _sewer_ and had to be sleeping in filth.

 _He is too damaged to understand what is happening and he needs help._ _He needs help and he is **going** to get it. _

_Even if I need drag him out of this hell myself._


	12. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sideswipe finds what he was looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** This story can get very dark, and please be aware of that. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :)

Evening approached, the temperatures dropped, and it became cool enough for extended movement. Hook was still busy repairing the injured tonight as the two lowest floors had been hard won.

Now the struggle was keeping them.

The heavy barricades were re-enforced by alternating teams of heavy hitters and vicious Junkions. Long Haul took the second patrol shift with Snarl and several others. Cautious gang members tested the barricades frequently, but so far the titan-steel grates and the connecting cuffs held them off.

More worrying was that Overlord didn’t seem to care. He hadn’t bothered to come down and engage them, and remained in the courtyard.

“He’s either already up to something, or he really doesn’t take us very seriously.” Onslaught crossed his arms over his chest plates, studying the gang members wandering about. He had climbed one of the higher trash piles and was peering through the barricade.

Thundercracker flicked his wings in agreement from his perch on a mangled piece of fallen catwalk. “Probably a bit of both.”

Onslaught tapped at his helm suddenly as a comm-line blinked to life in his HUD. <I read you, Swindle. Report.>

<Still nothing more than a few couple of love taps on the ‘cades. Feeling a little snubbed, actually.>

Onslaught grunted. <It won’t last. Keep me updated.>

<Sure thing.>

A subdued roar sounded from the courtyard arena. The gang members were gathered to watch as Overlord forced the injured to battle each other to the death. He was enjoying the current bout while lounging lazily on his crude throne.

“We damaged those mechs during the fighting,” Thundercracker muttered.

Onslaught grunted. “No medic, then. No wonder they were holding back. I wasn’t expecting to break as much ground as we did.”

Without access to a medic, any serious injury was a death sentence. Thus Overlord’s rules were rather simple; any mech stupid enough to get severely damaged served as entertainment, then lunch. Overlord intended his mechs fight to the death against their enemies rather than face his arena, but in practice it just meant they tried to avoid front-lining. Thus a massively out-numbered mix of Cybertronians and Junkions had held their own against the toughest species the galaxy had to offer, even outmatched ten to one.

“Seems counterproductive, right? They vastly outnumber us, but they have _this_ to look forward to if we damage them badly enough.” Thundercracker matched Onslaught’s cold expression as he stared at the worst mechanism his species had to offer.

There was another subdued roar as the gang members cheered on the combatants. “Yes and no,” Onslaught said. “He has too many, and it makes sense. Spare too many of them, start whittling them down for fuel. They are little more than cattle to him.”

“It is why victory will be ours,” Megatron joined the impromptu Command huddle, pleased to see Thundercracker take his place among them. “His minions hold no loyalty to him.”

“Speaking of loyalties,” Onslaught pointed towards the coughing air conditioning unit below, “now that we have several launch points, I want to lead a small strike team out to see if we can get some repairs done.”

Thundercracker shook his helm. “But the heat is an advantage we have over-”

“If that miserable machine goes down completely, no amount of cooling gel will save us,” Onslaught interrupted him. “After a few days without some way to cool down this prison, we won’t be functional enough to fight anybody.”

“Very well,” Megatron said. “Get it stabilized. I trust your judgment in this.”

“I’ll see if we can kill a few of them in the meantime,” Onslaught said as he waved his team and the waiting Constructicons towards the tunnel in the Bailiwick. The air conditioning unit burbled and gasped in the distance.

Fortunately, help was on the way.

 

* * *

 

Unaware of the plotting and maneuvering above them, the Autobots slept through the day undisturbed. A flat sheet of metal covered by the tarp served as a communal sleeping area, and everyone remained nestled together for comfort.

With the sunken ship’s entrance blocked off, the air was not so hot anymore. They were far more comfortable now that they were safely underground. The ship remained dark and quiet, and so they slept on and on. For quite some time the only sounds were soft ventilations, and from Optimus, the occasional little engine rumble…

... _hot breath and a heavy, indistinct engine rumbled against his back plates. Seated in the other's lap, he felt safe and content. The dream mech wavered and morphed back and forth. Sometimes the mech behind him was heavy; sometimes he was … something else … something dark with a thick, powerful tail._

_The movements were rhythmic and so very satisfying. He leaned back against the much bigger frame as heavy arms wrapped around him, supporting him, his helm tilted back and optics closed, relishing the attention as warmth gathered below. A sleek glossa traced up his neck, nibbling along his cables and he sighed. He spread himself further, spread his legs and moaned as the tip of a thick spike traced up his thigh._

_He cried out when the hot length plunged into his aching valve. Taken from behind, gasping and filled to bursting, he pressed back into that first, glorious thrust. He deeply enjoyed the shadow-mech’s efforts, his sensors pinging hot and calipers clamped down on the dark other's spike, charge surging ever higher as the other plunged deeper and deeper-_

–lurching awake from his dream, Optimus wished he had stayed under just a little longer.

He blushed a little as he could tell the others around him were enjoying similar dreams, perhaps brought on by his own. Then he winced as his valve complained for the tease; for the vividness of the dream he found himself fully aroused, dripping wet and aching. But far more insistent were the complaints for its intruder. Confused, the rings tightened around the mass inside, still eager for sensation, but the alien device was as far from a spike as could be. He huffed in irritation and considered taking his own spike in hand for a little relief, but he was too worried he'd disturb the others.

Instead he rolled over on his side, and then into a sitting position, careful not to jar Ratchet. Watching over his Autobots, he did another helm count and then listened to their peaceful venting. He sat for a long time as his array slowly cycled back down.

He watched Sideswipe shiver in his sleep. A little droplet of oral fluid in the corner of his mouth twinkled with blue optic-shine. Optimus reached out and ran a comforting and slightly possessive hand down the Lambo's back.

 _Could have lost him yesterday..._ and once again he felt a surge of fear.

It was becoming a constant feeling now, and he fought with himself. He wanted to work through this fear he struggled with, so unusual for him. Normally he faced his problems head on, but without words he couldn't usefully analyze what he was feeling. Lacking the mental insight necessary for self-inflection, he grew frustrated with himself and climbed to his pedes instead.

Standing there, Optimus finally decided to do something useful, and opted to go out for a short walk and scavenge.

Slipping up the run, he peered out of the hollow, searching the open spaces for any signs of danger. He was far more hesitant for his lack of plating, as he was in no condition for any sort of scrap. While the other prisoners couldn’t reach him directly, some of them had small, grasping hands and could seriously harm him.

The blue sunlight above was so scorching as to melt the weaker non-living metals. The buzz and sizzle of hot metal mimicked the sounds of insects teeming on a hot day, but otherwise, all seemed quiet.

Wary, he crept out into the wider under-grate, deciding to stick close to the hollow for safety. But most of this area was already picked through, and soon he found himself ranging further out, unintentionally following Sideswipe's path from the previous day. He moved slowly for the scorching temperatures as he worked his way along the perimeter of the under-grate, pausing here and there to pick at anything of interest.

The slats under the middle section of the under-grate were wider here, though still too narrow for easy passage. Optimus stayed low and cautious, then startled when he heard a whistle.

One of the Junkions from yesterday was standing on the grating above him.

The stranger was only a few paces away, all harsh lines and scruffy-looking. Optimus immediately started putting distance between them, alarmed that the mech had gotten so close without him noticing. But the rag-tag mech kept his hands loose and open, and seemed friendly. Kneeling down as if to appear less threatening, the Junkion began whistling a merry little tune for the blue and red mech limping and crawling warily below.

Optimus kept an optic on him, but the Junkion didn't look put off for his wariness. Instead, the rusty mech smiled at him and made a curious gesture with his hands, pointing at Optimus' midsection. It translated as a _how are you_ _feeling_ sort of question. But there was a strange familiarity in the stranger's golden eyes, a presumed intimacy that he had not earned in the slightest.

Feeling threatened all the same, Optimus edged steadily away. As he moved, he couldn't help but glance back down to his abdominals, wincing to be reminded how they swelled so noticeably. His state shouldn’t be as obvious yet, but without his outer plating, his softer protoform mesh moved as it pleased.

 _How long I can keep this newspark alive..._ and he worried at the bump while putting more distance between himself and the still-crooning Junkion. Then he realized the mech was following him, however slowly, and he didn't like _that_ one bit. He didn’t know what the Junkion was saying, and though he could tell that the noises were meant to be disarming, there was _nothing_ disarming about the sharp electric spear strapped loosely across the mech’s back.

That weapon could absolutely fit through the gaps above.

 _Not letting you near me,_ Optimus' wary gaze said, even as the Junkion trailed after him, staying close but not _too_ close. Then the Junkion stopped whistling. Circling around, he warbled strange, melodic notes at him instead.

Optimus perked up a bit at the sound. _A rhyme perhaps,_ he considered, and it held his attention as the other mech gestured towards something lying beneath him. There was another spear half-buried in the muck, perhaps one the warrior had previously lost.

Optimus looked down at the spear, then back up at the Junkion. He hesitated as he realized the situation ... _he wishes me to return it to him. This may be an opportunity to make an ally._

It was an opportunity Optimus felt he couldn't pass up. Crawling forward, he watched the other with cautious eyes, making sure only the Junkion was within sight. He took care to watch for any sign of malice. Finding only soft edges, he hefted up the spear and offered it to the other mech, carefully fitting it up between the slats. The mech smiled down at him, moving slowly forward and gripped the spear. The Junkion slid his mismatched fingers down the shaft of the spear, nearly touching Optimus as he continued his lilting noises. 

The rhymes never faltered, even as Optimus immediately scuttled back to a safer distance, already rethinking the ally thing. His carrier coding was surging within him, urging him to flee for safety.

Then a sharp clicking sound drew his attention.

Optimus looked back over his shoulder to see the Junkion’s fingers were thrust through the slots, held out in offering. A mouthful of metal … _a piece of some wretch’s fuel tank,_ he realized. It still dripped with half-digested energon. He was both enticed and horrified, and his fuel tanks lurched with need.

Optimus hesitated. Finally he crept back. He reached out and accepted the gift with cautious fingers. _Thank you,_ he dipped his helm. Wreck-Gar sat back on his thick pedes, satisfied.

Optimus retreated with the gift clenched between his fingers. He had fully intended to share it, but within moments it vanished down his hungry intakes. His fuel tanks gurgled happily for the needed nutrition.

Optimus watched as Wreck-Gar strode off while sliding the recovered metal spear into a holster along his back.

…

 

Optimus returned to the sunken ship not long after, to find the others were still deep in recharge. He was laying out his little handful of salvaged items when a soft noise nearby drew his attention.

Prowl was squirming in his endless dreams. Optimus saw Jazz jolt awake and reach out with gentle fingers. Checking his once-lover, Jazz frowned when he felt how hot Prowl's helm was. He blinked when he saw Optimus was awake and watching him.

 _Here,_ Optimus pulled out a tiny tube of heat-sink cream from his subspace, from his stash of medical supplies. _This will help._ Optimus was about to get up when Jazz leaned towards him and extended his hand for the tube.

Optimus tried to protest. _Here, let me do that._

Intending to apply the cream to Prowl’s burning hot processor himself, Optimus waved Jazz away. Over the course of the last little while he'd tried to gently insert himself between the two hurting mechs whenever he could; Prowl was strongly rejecting Jazz's every touch. Jazz noticed of course, and he understood why. But he refused to back off.

 _I got it boss-bot, no worries._ Jazz snatched the tube from Optimus’ servos and waved _him_ away.

The tactician’s processors were running hot and Jazz carefully opened his helm plating to get access to his memory core. Opening the tube, Jazz spread the comforting balm over the burning hot components while murmuring soothing noises.

Optimus hesitated but then settled back and watched as Jazz fussed over Prowl. He knew the saboteur was coping with his pain and the madness around them by focusing his attention on Prowl. Every touch and protective embrace had been love-born, and lacked even the slightest of questionable undertones.

Optimus watched them both like a turbo hawk, and the more he saw, the unhappier he became. They had always been the very embodiment of 'opposites attract.' The only thing they had in common was their complete and utter effectiveness at their jobs. Prowl had cut Jazz out of his life shortly before the Constructicons started hanging around him. He'd replaced Jazz almost overnight with the combiner team, much to Jazz's dismay.

Watching them interact, Optimus was certain now that Prowl had not been truthful with the saboteur. Prowl could be manipulative at times, one of the many reasons why he was so effective at his job. There was a good chance that Jazz’s easy going nature and tendency to build strong bonds with ‘his’ mechs meant controlling him would be best accomplished by manipulating that trait. Keeping control of the lethal saboteur for his own reasons would not be beyond Prowl and Optimus knew that.

Jazz watched Optimus right back with a wary side-eye. Then he gestured at Optimus, intentionally deflecting that concern in a different direction. _Did you notice Ratchet?_

Optimus blinked, then looked down at the medic nestled against him. _Ratchet looks fine? What?_

Pointing at Ratchet's abdominals, Jazz's servos went from a circle gesture to flat-palmed. _He's flat. No bump anymore. Lost and re-absorbed, looks like._

Jazz watched as Optimus began fussing over Ratchet, checking him, feeling along his front. Optimus rumbled softly. _Perhaps for the best._ He had no idea how Ratchet was going to take that bit of news. Then again, Ratchet hadn't much time to come to grips with anything before they were stripped. This might be more a mercy then anything else.

Optimus returned his attention to Jazz, only to see the soft curve of his bare back plates. Re-wrapped lovingly around the now quiet Prowl, Jazz was already drifting off to sleep. Sneaky Porsche. Optimus sighed and let it go for now.

Everyone had their faults and quirks. Optimus knew Jazz was more than capable of handling himself under normal circumstances. Normally he would never interfere, but Prowl was unconscious and helpless and this situation was far from normal. Beyond that, he was worried for Jazz.

_Best to keep an optic on him._

The Porsche still held a candle for the other black and white, but by the way Prowl was acting there was no love left there. If there had been any at all. It would not be the first time Prowl had attempted to control a game board piece with questionable tactics, though as a rule Optimus never meddled with relationships if he could avoid it.

 _This is going to end in spilled optical fluid,_ and Optimus rumbled unhappily. But by this point his interface array had calmed, and so he resettled down among them. Optimus pulled Ratchet a little closer, giving him a supportive little squeeze, and finally relaxed enough to drift back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

In spite of their many idiosyncrasies, the Junkions were proving genuinely useful. While they didn't have the strength to go toe-to-toe with heavier enemies, as support they were fantastic.

Junkions didn’t need much to survive, but there was one thing they simply couldn’t do without. The disarray they insisted on living in was a small reminder of the momentous trash-heap called home, the aptly named planet of Junk. No small numbers of them gathered at the edges of the Commons, disguised by the piles of trash (which Megatron ordered left for them) and peered unhappily down at the desecration occurring on the ground floor.

Down below, a cleanup crew lead by Pipes was busy clearing the trash from the lowest level as per Megatron’s orders. Ignoring the intense disapproval-rays blasting down from the Junkions, Pipes' crew were trudging the mess into an unused cave a floor up. Others were busy using improvised welders to line the grating sides and floors with strips of metal in strategic places for more cover.

“No shoes, no shirt, no service,” one of the Junkions muttered, and everyone nodded in terse agreement. A trash-pile moved and an accusing finger jabbed downward, “Yes, we have no bananas.” Look at that. Just _look_ at it.

So … _clean_.

They weren’t happy with their Cybertronian guests. Overlord was fixated on them and now even their _trash-piles_ were in danger. They never agreed to this. It wasn’t right.

“Thirty thousand pounds of no bananas!” Another Junkion shrieked across the Commons and the Cybertronians blinked – _what is a banana?_ – and just shrugged at each other.

Wreck-Gar joined the quarrelsome group for a moment. He considered the disturbance and his mech’s reactions and a slow smile touched his lip plating. “Think _outside_ the bun.”

All the Junkions perked up at his suggestion. Shared glances and crafty grins aplenty broke out as the Junkion leader walked away, busy with his own concerns.

Wreck-Gar reappeared from the Bailiwick a short while later, a heavy sack in his hands. He passed by the massed Junkions with a bounce in his steps, looking distracted. One of his mechs prodded the other and pointed at him. Their apprehensive optics dropped down to the sack. "Dearest Lucy," someone muttered, and several poked at him in warning.

More nervous side-glances.

On the ground level, Pipes' work crew continued to haul trash away for hours while the Junkions sulked and plotted. Sometimes the former Autobots dropped to hands and knees, hoping to catch a glimpse of Prime, but there was no movement.

“Did Megatron talk to you too?” Tracks asked while dumping an armful of trash onto a make-shift sled Scavenger had cobbled together for him. “I said no. I still don’t…I don’t trust them enough for something like that.”

Pipes winced. “I agreed to help because they are better off up with us then… down here.”

Tracks lowered his vocalizer. “It’s on your helm then, you know that? If Megatron decides to take advantage of Prime’s…of his situation and _does something_. They were our enemies for eons. I can take care of myself, but I wouldn’t vouch for any of the Decepticons here.”

“What the slag else are we going to do about him?” Snarl growled out in defense of his little buddy when Pipes didn’t answer. “Just leave Prime and the others here to rot?”

Tracks shrugged. “Just something to consider.”

Once finished, they hurried back to the safety of the energy shield, while Pipes rode atop Snarl’s back. Fingers clenched around Snarl's plating, he stared down at his fingers with a pensive frown.

 

* * *

 

Dusk rolled into evening, and finally the Autobots all began to stir.

As soon as Sideswipe was sufficiently awake and fueled, the aggressive little Lambo wanted out to explore their surroundings, but Optimus refused.

 _Not now. Not safe,_ Optimus gestured. _Everyone stays inside._

Sideswipe tried to argue. But he could tell that his leader was still peeved with him for yesterday’s stunt and his complaints got him nowhere.

Instead, Optimus called an impromptu meeting to go over what they needed for the ship. No point in wandering around outside if they didn’t know what to look for. They were doing amazingly well communicating with each other. It was insane how well they functioned together, considering what they had to work with.

But there were limits.

They soon realized the concepts they needed to discuss were far too large for rough hand gestures. It wasn't long before they grew frustrated with each other. Finally Optimus had to call the meeting off when it dissolved into angry clicks, chirps, and gesture-yelling.

Wheeljack and Perceptor were particularly upset. They waved off Optimus’ attempts to sooth them, and walked away together. Optimus followed after them insistently, but backed off when they started over again with just each other. It was obvious their scientific background was of some special help to them.

Optimus left them to it, and checked on the other two. Jazz was busying himself by tending over a fussing Prowl. Optimus clasped Jazz's shoulder and pulled him closer, optics bright with concern. His engine offered up a soft, concerned rumble.

_Are you alright?_

Jazz hesitated. He could feel the clench of Optimus' insistent concern, slowly turning over into a possessive controlling grip, coiling ever tighter around him. But then he shrugged and grinned and soothed his leader right back.

_I'm alright, boss-bot._

Then Optimus heard Sideswipe's engine growl and he turned, zeroing in on the upset mech. Sideswipe was ducking back into the cockpit to find something to kick until he felt better, but Optimus followed after him, and pulled him back.

Sideswipe whipped his head around and looked up at Optimus, startled for the grip. He was instantly exasperated and tried to shove him away. Even more so when Optimus pulled him back, and settled him into his lap.

Sideswipe squirmed, unsure. But a few insistent clicks later had Optimus wrapping him up in his arms and holding him close, the smaller mech all but vanishing as the larger curled around him in a powerful, protective embrace.

Under normal circumstances Optimus would never do such a thing. Sideswipe blinked, but the cuddling did feel good and he calmed within moments. He could sense Optimus' concern and worry through his fields. It was obvious he was still upset for the previous day’s scare.

Not long after, the scientist and the engineer waved everyone back over, and Optimus finally released Sideswipe.

 _We need more of these,_ 'Jack pointed out some bits of wire and strips of metal. Behind him, Perceptor nodded and looked pleased.

 _We will find what we can._ Optimus was back in a good mood, and he stepped away. He spent a few astro-seconds staring at the exit, considering. On occasion pede steps sounded outside. Four very heavy sets of treads had pounded around outside at times. Poking about, calling out incomprehensible things. Another particularly heavy set had been persistent in hovering awhile back, but even that one had gone.

It was quiet now, and had been for many joors. It might be safe...

Jazz saw him looking and waved at him. _Want to go out?_ _I got your back, boss-bot._

Optimus considered the piece of bulkhead they were using as a door, still unsure. _Are you certain you are up for it?_

Jazz grinned at him in answer, and Optimus moved the bulkhead. Behind him, Optimus felt Sideswipe press in close, trying to follow along with them. He was about to order him to remain behind, but the red twin insisted.

 _Saw something out there yesterday,_ Sideswipe pointed at his optics and out the run. _Can take you there. We will need ‘Jack._

 _A machine,_ Sideswipe mimed at Wheeljack’s curious look.

Optimus rumbled, but finally relented.  After ordering Perceptor to remain behind and watch over the sleepers, Optimus crept out first. He headed up the run with Jazz and a too-eager Sideswipe right behind him. Wheeljack trailed behind, systems still delicate, reluctant to leave the safety of the ship. 

Optimus hesitated right outside the hollow opening, checking to see if the coast was clear. It seemed brighter and hotter by far, and he didn't like it. With his damaged eyesight, it was Jazz who pointed out the obvious.

_All the cover is gone!_

Jazz pointed at the missing trash. There was a cave in the distance, clearly abandoned, and it was _overflowing_ with random pieces of dreck and ruck and slag.

Above them, there was only bright light, cut into neat little shadow-outlines for the grating. The muck of the under-grate was laid bare, no cover at all. Anyone could see them now, and both Optimus and Jazz shrank back. Sideswipe tried to wiggle past them and they both pulled him back, ignoring his protesting clicks.

As shallow as the under-grate was, anyone could charge over and grab them, or spear them from above. Restricted to hands and knees for most of it, they had no hope of outrunning any pursuers from above the grate.

Sudden movements caught Optimus' attention as shadows appeared from a hole in the far wall. He clicked a warning at the others, sending them darting down the run and back into the safety of the little ship.

Optimus alone remained outside. He settled himself and watched with wary, blurry optics as the rusty mechs headed towards the far cave.  _Are those Junkions?_ He strained, struggling to focus. _They **are** Junkions. _ He could hear lilting tones again, the Junkions singing as they moved, belting out some merry tune he didn’t recognize.

Optimus felt a touch on his back struts, and soft huffing as Jazz reappeared. _Come on boss-bot. I want to see. Move over!_

Jazz could tell Optimus was nervous, watching something or someone. He wanted to look too, but couldn't get past with Optimus blocking the way.

Too much belly between them.

Optimus felt another insistent tug, but didn't move. He sat in the entrance instead, blocking it, feeling better knowing his little group was safe inside. Anyone wanting to harm them would have to go through _him_ first. He felt massively better, actually.  He knew where everyone was and they were full and comfortable and safe and protected behind him. Not hunted and chased and battered and torn apart and… _eaten_.

This ... this was _good_.

The cheery singing made it hard for him stay nervous, and so Optimus held his ground. He watched as the Junkions disappeared into the cave and returned with armfuls of trash. They threw the trash through the air happily as Jazz continued to huff, pushing at his leader's unyielding mass _... Why you so **heavy** , boss-bot? Come on! Moooove!_

Optimus huffed back. _Shoo, Porsche._

He heard Sideswipe’s protesting clicks as the red twin joined Jazz in fussing at their leader, both pushing at his settled frame. Strength in numbers? Not hardly.

 _Shoo, Lambo._ _Leader’s prerogative._

The stripped, but still oh-so-dignified Prime remained unmoved and unmovable. Mostly. His head did tilt back a bit. His expression remained sedate, but deep contentment winded through his EM fields.

Meanwhile the merry Junkions spread garbage right back over everything. Piles and piles of it reappeared.  Faces gleeful, nothing short of scientific notation would be needed to calculate the sheer amounts of tackiness that ensued as the ratter-tatter mechs burst out into some kind of dance number while they undid all the good Pipe's crew had accomplished.

Soft, amused little engine rumbles were drowned out by a _stirring_ rendition of ‘Mama Paquita,’ complete with pirouettes every time some junk-pile yelled ‘banana!’

Optimus watched with relief as the light disappeared and the dark cover returned. He crept out further and further as the blistering temperatures dropped by a few degrees beneath the sheltered under-grate. Finally he dared click at them, heartened by their playfulness and his previous interaction with the one with the spear. Interrupting their hearty singing, he drew their attention and pointed out a particularly bright, bare patch.

_You missed a spot._

They hooted at him in delight. Obliging him, they dumped more trash where he indicated. They seemed friendly enough, until one of them suddenly came at him. The friendly expression turned tense in less than half a klik. Optimus chirped in surprise as shrewd, grasping fingers glanced off his mesh.

Optimus fell back with a start, rolling away.

A few moments of intense panic ensued as Jazz hauled the resisting Sideswipe deeper into the run to give Optimus room to retreat. Once safe, Optimus crept back up the run. He peered back out from deeper in the hollow.

The friendly looks were back.

Optimus watched as the two-faced Junkion strode away. He moved as if nothing had happened, even while harassed by his fellows for losing his grip on the delicate carrier mech. Said carrier-mech didn't understand their words, and he was far more wary of them after that. Finally they left, leaving thick trash-drifts in their wake, happier than pigs roiling in mud wallows.

Optimus climbed out of the hollow to look around. Cautious, he moved out into the open spaces, with Sideswipe popping up behind him with a _well finally_ series of huffs. Jazz ranged out wide, keeping sharp optics on the shadows.

Wheeljack peeked out a few moments later, unsure, and followed behind with careful, mincing movements. Optimus slowed the pace for him, his attention now focused on the shy, nervous engineer.

Sideswipe waved at them, optics bright with excitement. _Follow me._

He had spotted the heavy machinery during his flight from the Decepticons. It was in a central location, and cover was sparser here, but once the coast seemed clear, they crept out towards it.

Staring at the mangled mess, everyone jolted when a particularly upset voice shattered the quiet. "I JUST CLEANED THAT! I DID! ASK TRACKS! WHAT THE SLAG?!" The Autobots blinked at each other and everyone shrugged.

Wheeljack was busy looking over the device with growing interest. _Maybe I can fix this,_ he motioned. He puttered with it for some time, while Optimus hovered protectively over him. Lots of pinched fingers and nervous diesel engine rumbles later and finally he managed to get it working.

Gears shrieked and begin to turn, followed by a whooshing sound. They stared as it guttered to life and it isn’t long before they realize they’ve repaired the sanitation systems. The device was an atmospheric water generator/replication unit, meant to provide fluid to the penitentiary and run the sanitation systems.

There was a long moment of rattling, and clear fluid (only slightly thicker than water) started to flood through burst pipes above. Soon the penitentiary was soaking, steam boiling up from hot surfaces.  They heard yelling from above, excitement as clean fluid began to rain down upon them… immediately growing dark and filthy for the mess above.

 _I hate this so much,_ Sideswipe shook his fists, soaked with filthy fluid. _Sunny would be losing his processor right about now._

Wheeljack waved. _We have a bigger problem here!_  

They started towards him as he turned to scrabble down the small sunken walkway. They scurried back down the cramped passage as fluid began to flood and fill around them. The drainage holes drilled deep down into the ground were blocked. They start clearing them, bare fingers scrabbling and frantic as the water level began to rise.

_Shut it off!_

Optimus clicked noisy emphasis, equal measures of soaked, alarmed, and irritated. The fluid was boiling hot and the filth caked on the ground was starting to loosen, the sludge around their legs churning into a bubbling stew.

But Wheeljack just shook his helm, optics pleading for patience. _Wait!_ _Better this way, cleaner!_

After intense effort they cleared the drains and the rivers of sludge start draining down the cleared garbage-fluid chutes, down into deep drilled holes to evaporate, out of sight and mind.

 _This will be better,_ Wheeljack promised again. He looked exhausted but oh so happy and Optimus sighed. Fluid still rained down from above, splattering over him in little rivers and he relented with an irritable gesture of surrender.

 _Perhaps the mechs above will fix the burst pipes,_ Optimus pointed with vague motions, too irritable to put much effort into his gestures. The others nodded at him even though they had no idea what he meant. Sometimes it was easier to feign agreement then waste so much time trying to understand some concepts.

Meanwhile Sideswipe started crawling back towards their shelter, fed up with the filth around him. He hadn’t seen any sign of Sunny and he was still a Lamborghini to his core. _Yuck,_ his bare back said as he shuffled away.

Wheeljack's helm canted when he finally figured out what Optimus meant. He made a doubtful motion, _too busy killing each other,_ and his optics filled with disgust for the mechs above. There was no way any of the Autobots are going up there to start repairs, in any event. 'Jack gestured as such, pointing up there, back to himself, and shaking his helm.

 _Killed on the spot,_ Optimus agreed. He mimed a gunshot to the helm and watched as Wheeljack turned back to head towards their dingy shelter, his shuffling steps a little lighter for a job well done.

Jazz once again took point as they all stepped back towards their shelter, with Optimus following up the rear. He was keeping a close watch on Sideswipe now, who seemed too interested in the goings-on above them. Looking for something, perhaps? He couldn't allow it. There would be no rescue for anyone snatched away, not in their state. Prevention was the only protection, beyond the under-grate.

Optimus watched as Wheeljack escaped inside, once again feeling better as soon as his little group disappeared underground. Fortunately the old ship hatch was still above the churning water level.

Optimus blocked the run with his body again, remaining outside and peering up through the grating. Occasional flashes of movement caught his blurry optics though the small slats. Shouts and voices echoed above him, still completely incomprehensible.

Clean patches of ground appeared here and there as he watched. The boiling liquid swirled towards the drains and dragged all manners of mess with it, working hard to remove the encrusted tar-sludge.

 _At least the filth is starting to wash away._  

Above Optimus, a sing-song voice drifted down, and he shrank back further into the protective hollow. Hesitant, Optimus searched until he spotted the source of the lilting tones; the Junkion with the spear was back. The mech seemed genuinely friendly, but Optimus only shrank away from him.

Who knew if this Junkion was as two-faced as the other had been?

The rain continued to fall, now running clear as the entire facility was steamed clean. Hearing yelling and the pounding of pedes heading towards the lower level, Optimus slid back down the run. He blocked off the entrance with the bulkhead, feeling unsure and troubled.

…

 

_Joy!_

He could see her down below and he was filled with a deep sense of relief.

Dearest Lucy had survived.

Fluid began raining down over the entire penitentiary and he could hear bedlam across both sides of the energy shield. Only he remained unmoved, too busy staring down the slats, hoping to catch another glimpse of her.

She must be furious with him. He could understand that. She’d ignored him for weeks at times when he’d enraged her. That time he’d broken the telly antenna crossed his processor, and a silly grin filled his face plates. She hadn’t forgiven him ‘til he’d come home with a replacement, twice as big.

He’d truly failed her this time.

She'd forbade him release the Torture King when the monster had first arrived, bound and shackled and smiling that terrible smile. He'd thought the mech friendly, but she hadn’t liked the look of him. He hadn’t listened. All the horror that came after, it was on _his_ helm and for his mistakes she’d been laid in pieces at his feet. The weight had been crushing, agonizing. He’d been so certain he’d lost her, after seeing her torn to pieces. Worse and further that her death had meant the loss of two lives that terrible, terrible day.

Now, beneath the grating, in a hollow in the wall, he could see the faintest flickers of blue flashing in the darkness below.

She’d always been a strong one… _should have had more faith!_   She didn't look like she used to… but it was her. It had to be. She must have changed out her damaged parts. Entirely understandable, after what the Torture King had… their kind was always exchanging parts; it was neither here nor there.

Kneeling in the abandoned cave, disguised by the wreck and ruin around him, Wreck-Gar watched the little hollow with keen gold optics. He didn’t even acknowledge the second Junkion that approached, moving furtively through the dry garbage to nestle at his side

“Because _so much_ is riding on your tires,” his second-in-command tugged at his elbow, voice low and urgent.

Wreck-Gar pointed down below. “Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.”

The persuasive, insistent voice remained soft and low. “ _No_. Not Lucy… _he_ killed her dead, took her head. Game over, man! Game over.”

Down below there was a faint scraping sound, as a heavy piece of metal was dragged across the inner entrance of the hollow below. The tiny flashes of blue optic light were blocked off, the little group of mechs safe in the bony embrace of the rust-ship.

“Lost her head? She’s shed her deathbed!” Wreck-Gar said as a weight tumbled off his shoulders, leaving him light, leaving him feeling… _free…_ even as his subordinate grew frantic.

“No!” his second hissed. “Deader than a doornail! Agreed to creed with Torture King! Drop the shield, he leaves us sealed, takes his steel to heel! Already begun the plan! He expects you play your hand!”

“No plan.” Wreck-Gar tilted his helm back as rust-rain ran rivulets down his helm. Free. He felt so … free.

Staring at Wreck-Gar's peaceful expression, the second-in-command was filled with dismay. Unnoticed by his leader, he stomped away with shaking servos, so certain the Cybertronians would be the death of them all. But damn him to the pit, even though Wreck-Gar wasn’t thinking straight, Junkions were _loyal_. There was nothing he could do if Wreck-Gar would not listen to reason.

But reason did still have a home in Wreck-Gar’s mind. He wasn’t so far gone… the truth nibbled at the edges of his processor, but he chose to push it away. Instead his spark embraced the lie that set him free, unshackled him from his pain, and gave him a means to redeem himself to his darling Lucy.

Shame and anguish washed away in the boiling rain and in the hesitant, creeping shadows below and now only hope remained.

“Oy! When it rains, it pours!”

Another of his mechs shouted jubilantly at him, and he waved absentmindedly, still trying to peer into the dark hole she’d fled to. Standing nearby, yet another trash-heap was watching him. They were all watching him.  

Wreck-Gar ignored their obvious concern, tilting his helm back, enjoying the fluid dripping down his frame. He intended to speak to his co-leader. _Will tell him I agreed to creed to stall for time,_ he decided. It sounded better than admitting they intended to betray their guests to save themselves.

Fortunately the mech seemed reasonable enough.

…

 

Far above them in the Commons, mechs were working feverishly to seal up the pipes within reach. The work was frantic around the drowning energy shield generator, its buzzing complaints growing ... insistent.

Uh, guys? Questionable energy fuel. Constant beatings. Complete and utter disrespect, and now _waterboarding_?

It held their lives in its metaphorical hands, and to be fair, was well within rights to hand them over to Overlord at this point. They _did_ feed it the dregs of their fuel. Sunstreaker called it a "fragging disgrace" and to add insult to injury, someone even tagged “ol' glitchy" across the front of it, the graffiti artist running out of room halfway, the uneven words wrapping around the sides.

In in the courtyard, Overlord’s minions were milling around in the rain, eyeing the sputtering energy shield. The madman himself was up to something questionable in the distance. Dragging a berth pad towards his chambers, he was soaking wet but didn’t seem to notice. He had several different types of shackles slung over his shoulder, along with some sort of crude … harness?

Oh my.

Overlord shot a glance towards the whining energy shield, a knowing smile crossing his face plates. He was expecting company within the next few cycles, and was getting prepared.

A shout from one of his mechs interrupted him, and Overlord stood up straight and tall. “What is it?”

“A ship! I saw a ship fly overhead!”

Overlord began snapping orders. Another mech, a flight-enabled Lithonian, charged forward and leapt into the air. He flew up towards the surface, even though the star was already climbing back into the sky, the brightening light signaling the beginning of a new cycle (and the start of the sleep cycle to wait out the heat). It was already heating up and Overlord’s flight mechs were reluctant to obey, even as the commotion drew the attention of the Cybertronians.

Thundercracker could be seen from the courtyard, curious red optics and the tips of perked blue wings peeking over the trash-pile barricade in the distance. He was enjoying the fluid trickling down his body, still perched on the catwalk, as a second seeker joined him.

“You want me to fly and check it out?” Skywarp asked hopefully. He was only asking because he was getting low on spark energy for warping, and he couldn’t lower the shield himself. Otherwise he would just go, because he’d bet his wings the answer was going to be–

“No,” Thundercracker answered, vocalizer firm. “It’s too dangerous.”

Skywarp stomped away as Dirge, Thrust, Acid Storm, Nova Storm, and Ion Storm joined their commander. Thrust asked the obvious, “What’s up with them?” and tried to sit next to Thundercracker, who just pushed him back off without a word.

Take the _hint_ , Thrust.

“They think they see a starship.” Ion Storm stared up at the ceiling, watching the alien flyers disappear up the hole in the ceiling.

_Wharp!_

Skywarp disappeared despite his low energy levels, too overcome with curiosity and spite … only to reappear a few moments later. His body was already brutally hot, and the fluid raining over him boiling away almost instantly. His optics wide with fear and excitement, he shuddered in place even as Thundercracker turned on a heel-strut and strode towards him, absolutely furious for the open disrespect.

“It’s the Quintesson!”

Everyone froze at that, even Thundercracker, intakes falling open and skidding to a halt mid-stride.

All across the Commons were gasps and hisses…Cybertronian optics dilated, wings flared, fists clenched. Most of them unconsciously reached for weapons, but Skywarp’s next words were reassuring.

“They are fragged. It was a destroyer-class ship and they must have tangled with the Maulers in high orbit. Their ship just crashed in the valley over. There’s no way they survived.”

Ion Storm’s wings remained flared. “They were coming for _us_.”

“Dead now,” Skywarp grinned while edging away as Thundercracker was too distracted to pursue him. Across the courtyard, one of the alien mechs that had flown out returned damaged for the brutal starlight, and Overlord knocked him into the middle of the courtyard and gestured for the entertainment to resume.

“There will be more,” Thundercracker said as he and Ion Storm shared a look.

…

 

The Combaticons were halfway to the air conditioning unit when the rain began. Instead of heading back, Onslaught decided to take advantage of the distraction. The Constructicons readily agreed, and were now bustling over the moaning device.

The filthy fluid was raining down over him and Onslaught was not thrilled.

He needed a shower in the worst way, Primus knew it was true, but this was a shower of filth. Next to him, helping him keep watch was a cheerful-looking Brawl.  He looked like a turbo-hound out in the muddy rain, endlessly happy with the cooler temperatures.

Onslaught scowled, watching Brawl grinning back at him behind his visor. No he couldn't see it. _Yes_ it was there. He could _tell_. The other mech had opened his intakes several times already. That oh-so-familiar gleam was back in his optics, and he was threatening to say something unrelated to their task.

But each time Onslaught silenced him with a sharp look.

 _Don't you_ **_dare,_ ** _you filthy fragger._

Onslaught glared daggers at him. Thankfully for his continued sanity, Brawl took the hint and kept his mouth shut. Onslaught glanced back as Long Haul and Scavenger tried to sweet talk the poorly maintained unit into a better mood. Unlike the energy shield generator’s can-do attitude, the air conditioning unit was more than willing to watch them all die a slow, horrible death in bitter revenge. 

It hadn’t signed up for years of toil without maintenance.

Hook was watching them work, but with one optic trained below, searching the depths. His diligence was rewarded when a shadow shifted that shouldn’t have. “I see someone down there,” Hook remarked idly and promptly strode away.

“Watch your back!” Onslaught snapped after him, and Hook just waved at him dismissively.

The Combaticons had already driven off some of the rival gang. Onslaught was expecting retaliation, but with a clear view of the nearby stairwell, they would have some warning.

The survivors from the first incursion had either fled or died or both. But some of them were stouter, circling back around for another go. None more determined than the Chompazoid. He was intent on returning to Overlord with some sort of prize.

Fair to say, the other gang thought they might be up to something.  But neither group wanted to damage the air conditioning unit, as while absolutely everyone up here was homicidal, no one was particularly _suicidal_. Melting to death over the course of a few cycles was high on the list of ways to ruin one’s weekend, after all. But arriving back to the courtyard with captives to offer Overlord was a sure-fire way to live another day.

Sticking his beak around the corner, the Chompazoid started to creep forward and Vortex spotted him with a hiss. “We got incoming. Looks like mechs from the last scouting party.”

Swindle called out further warning. "More coming down the stairs."

“We need to pack this up,” Onslaught growled over his shoulder.

Long Haul grunted agreement. “We’ve already done what we can here. It’s stable, for now.”

“We need to talk to Megatron.” Scavenger looked worried as he stepped back. “This unit is on its last legs. I haven’t come across anything that would work for replacement parts. We have days, maybe weeks before things get bad."

Onslaught readied his crude sword while muttering "Define bad," and he missed his blaster like nothing else.

"Way hotter.”

"Guh."

…

“Hello there.”

Hook’s arrogant vocalizer drifted down to the small alien gestalt currently doing a poor job of keeping to the shadows. “Couldn’t help but notice you down there. A master of stealth, you are _not_. I have a… proposition for you.”

The Ammonites started to edge away, but Hook stopped them dead in their tracks when he pulled out the remainder of his ration and took a sip of it.

A soft moan of longing followed, and Hook smiled. This was going to be too easy. “Such a simple request, and I assure you I will make it worth your time.”

Hook offered the Ammonites the rest of his fuel, which they gulped down in frantic swallows. “Plenty more where that came from, but only so long as you prove useful.”

“What do you want?”

Hook’s grin widened and he pulled up a holo-vid of Prowl, focusing on the face plates. “I need you to take a good, long look at this mech…”

…

 

Meanwhile, the remnants of the scouting party grew bolder. The Chompazoid clacked his beak and started forward, motioning the others to follow him. He dropped his head, fluid trickling streams over his frame and splashing out his open maw. Rounding the corner, he intended nothing short of mayhem and also, snacks.

"Well now," the Chompazoid said as he cut off the now-retreating Cybertronians, striding forward on four blunt legs. "Look at what we have here? A lovely snack bar, laid out just for me."

“For _us_ ,” one of the other aliens hissed, and the Chompazoid threatened him with a sharp clack of his beak.

“Aww now, we don’t want any _trouble_ ,” and Brawl raised his servos in a cheerful mimicry of surrender. Behind him, Vortex grinned. He knew that tone; Brawl couldn’t wait for the fun to start.

The Chompazoid didn’t catch the undertone. “That’s ‘cause you’re weak,” the heavy-set mech laughed. His blustering, cheerful vocalizer rang out as he clamped his maw in threat. “Weak and made of _metal_.”

“We are _all_ made of metal,” and Onslaught gestured for the Constructicons to stand back and watch their backs. He’d taken the measure of the new arrivals and found them wanting. Already irritated by the rain, he wasn’t prepared to endure yet another mouth-breathing aft-hole.

“ _–_ yeah, but I _eat_ metal _–_ ”

“Underbite, isn’t it?” Megatron addressed his wayward subordinate, appearing out of the shadows.

Underbite stepped back a few paces, all his bluster gone. “Uh…” His comrades noticed his alarm and turned and bolted without a word. Anyone that gave the Chompazoid pause was someone they didn’t want anything to do with.

"Cowards," Underbite growled after their retreating backs, half turning. But he pulled up short at Megatron’s next words.

“-consumed the entire city of Nuon, as I recall.”

Underbite whirled back around, his talons sparking against the rusty metal flooring in his haste. “Yeah! _Yeah!_ That was me!” Underbite’s plating flaring in excitement, helm thrown back, high and proud. He was deeply flattered the Lord of the Decepticons remembered him when so many mechs didn’t.

“An impressive feat. Clearly you are worthy of wearing my sigil. But tell me, Underbite, what are you doing obeying orders from my enemies?”

“Well,” Underbite squirmed like a naughty puppy caught with a mouthful of stolen treats, “It’s like this–”

“I am well aware.” Megatron waved his servo with a dismissive air, then clenched a fist in warning. “But Overlord’s day is coming. Soon he will be ground beneath my pede. You would do well to remember which side you are on.”

Underbite ground his heavy beak, but nodded in agreement. Megatron was offering him a deal. Like any good Decepticon, he was going to keep his options open. Not too open, no, but open enough.

“Ain’t doing nothin’ too crazy,” Underbite warned. He had a healthy dose of respect for the other powerhouse here. Overlord was not one to cross, and a direct attack was tantamount to gruesome suicide.

Underbite said as much.

“That won’t be necessary,” Megatron assured him with a razor smile. “I just require your assistance for a small part of a greater plan. I intend to restore sanity to the throne of this little… ‘kingdom’ as Overlord so quaintly put it.”

“Yeah,” Underbite ground his beak again, “More sanity would be nice.”

He was well aware it was only a matter of time before it was his turn to beg for Overlord’s non-existent mercy. He had already caught the nightmare mech watching him, speculative optics trailing over his stout frame, and it made his plating crawl.

“Good,” Megatron smiled. “We understand each other. Now listen–”

 

* * *

 

The others were sleeping and Sideswipe listened for one mech’s vents in particular; he could hear Optimus’ soft engine rumbles, his gentle breaths, and the occasional panting cough. Optimus was deep in recharge.

It was now or never.

No one stirred when he crept to his pedes. No one noticed when the bulkhead moved, pushed out of the way and Sideswipe disappeared up the run.

Sideswipe slipped through the under-grate, alert for any dangerous movements. He pulled in a long vent, relieved to finally escape Optimus’ oppressive looming and hovering. His leader was just _overbearing_ right now.

Optimus was growing more and more possessive of his Autobots as rational thought receded and emotion claimed the driver's seat. He’d always had a protective streak, but now his concern for his mechs was near constant. Reacting to any perceived distress with physical touch instead of words now lost, he was growing accustomed to just reaching out and physically handling them. He watched them all, worrying over them, but he scrutinized Sideswipe’s every movement in particular. Although 'Sides understood why, the constant hovering was still irritating and smothering him.

Optimus didn’t trust his senses, but there was nothing wrong with Sideswipe’s optics.

So far the Decepticons had been nothing but friendly towards him. True, he'd only had brief contact with them, but that little fact grew less and less important as his need to see his brother grew stronger and stronger. It helped that he'd seen no sign of any other mech other than the Decepticons lately. With all the commotion, it made sense to him that the Decepticons had driven away the aliens.

It seemed safer … and though his carrier coding began to drip fear down his lines, he pushed his fears away. His brother was up there somewhere, and this was his chance.

Sideswipe started to work his way through the much cleaner grating.  Transforming up through the grate was much harder than falling down it, and he struggled for several kliks before he finally made it through. 

Creeping through the levels, he stuck to the shadows and moved with slow, careful steps. The little trip was much more pleasant now that the pipes had been capped off or repaired on both sides, and the rain had stopped. In the distance, could see the energy shield glowing, could hear electronic sputtering in the distance, and he headed in that direction. 

Up and up he climbed.

Sideswipe transformed through each layer in sheltered spots. At one point he startled when he came face to face with an odd-looking mech through a glass window; a skinny and lanky body covered in healing slashes, smooth silver mesh, naked bare ports but somehow not lewdly so, suggestions of red here and there, pot belly with dim blue optics and a basic face with no defining characteristics.

It looked like a base frame, unrefined, unfinished... and utterly brutalized.

Sideswipe raised his servos and then fell back in shock, realizing he was staring at a reflection of _himself_. A queer feeling arose within him, a sick, hurting twisting. He wasn’t nearly as vain as his brother, nor as beautiful as his brother, or as fast as his brother, or as…

Sideswipe pushed that feeling of shame away. The mech in the glass-shard-mirror was panting softly, looking physically distressed for the heat and he winced. He did his best to keep from in-venting the hot daytime air too deeply and kept moving.

_Must find Sunny._

It was daytime and too hot and everyone was sheltering and hiding from the heat of the day. He shouldn’t be out here either, but he kept moving, panting and huffing and heaving, pausing at times in the shade or huddling under trash to cool back down a few degrees… but he wouldn’t go back. He finally reached the highest level, moving as a creeping shadow.

He could see Decepticons lounging around here and there, and lots of Junkions. He stayed low, and then inspiration struck. He grabbed some strips of shredded tarp and twisted wires and wrapped them around his middle.

There. Instant Junkion. It wasn't the best disguise, but he stayed to the edges and that helped. When he had to move out into the open, he forced himself to move with a confidence he didn't feel.

Sunstreaker wasn't in the open area. Peeking upward, he didn't see him on any of the walkways or catwalks. _Must be inside the cave then._

Sideswipe started towards it, still keeping to the edges. He reached the cave entrance unmolested, but there was a hulking form in his way. A Constructicon. He had a fishing pole in his sleepy hands, holding it loose and the cast line was slack and trailing down below.

_Huh. Weird._

Sideswipe crept past the dozing mech, and slipped into the cooler dark of the cave. Thankfully the walkway between the cells was clear. He crept down it, peeking into the cells as he passed. Each cell was cordoned off, some with doors and some without. All were decorated to some degree, and all had scraps of metal and what-have-you welded or melted into the bars for privacy. One cell had what looked like a large, cozy-looking ... nest of some sort in the back. Another cell was particularly decorated. Brightly painted, it was lined with small berths all around the edges and bright glyphs painted on the wall.

Sideswipe winced when he realized this cave was where almost everyone was. They were drowsing through the worst of the day's heat, resting together in little groups of like-kind. No one slept alone.

Then Sideswipe jolted when a Decepticon seeker came barreling out of one of the cells, skidding to a stop after spotting him.

The Decepticon's glinting red optics roamed over Sideswipe, coming to rest on the symbol burned into his thigh. He seemed to recognize it instantly and his optics went wide. Then his gaze dropped further to the bare ports below, the hideous apparatus visible between the soft folds, and his optics scrunched together. Lip plating twisting, the seeker blasted questioning glyphs at Sideswipe and stepped closer.

Sideswipe fell back and prepared to flee down to the lower levels. As fierce of spirit as he still was, without plating he was at a massive disadvantage, not to mention being off-balance for his growing belly.

Sideswipe was determined, not crazy.

But the Decepticon strode after him, keeping pace, and Sideswipe's carrier coding roared fear through him, even as his warrior spirit had him whirl back around to face his purser helm-on. As the seeker began to close the distance between them, he passed through a brighter patch of light, revealing purple and black paint, lively wings, and mischievous red optics.

Names were lost to Sideswipe, but the Decepticon was still familiar somehow. 

The expression didn’t seem hostile…

_Oh hey … this guy!_

Sideswipe perked up a bit, memory-files of jumping this purple seeker and riding his aft halfway to Cybertron’s moon replaying behind his optics _._ That fight had been memorable, as was the fall from the stratosphere that laid him up under Ratchet’s less-than-tender mercies for deca-cycles.

His first attempt at jet judo; disastrous. But the rush... so addicting. He’d insisted on buying his jet pack after that, now gone, dumped with the rest of his blood-splattered armor on the floor of a Quint medi-lab. _Frag him_ , that had been expensive, not to mention the pricey surgery he'd undergone to install the back-latches needed to attach it.

The Decepticon may or may not have recognized him, but ground to a halt either way. The seeker stepped closer, optics keen, hands open, palms up in a universal greeting of _no weapons, no threat_. It wasn't true, though. Under normal circumstances with Decepticons, it was _never_ true.

Sideswipe didn’t want any trouble. He just wanted to see his brother, and so he gave negotiations a try. He raised his servos to show that he, too, wasn't armed, and meant no harm.

_Well duh!_

The Decepticon's expression conveyed his opinion, along with a soft blast of less useful gibberish. A playful grin spread across his face and then vanished as he remembered himself. 

Sideswipe pointed at his optics and then down the corridor. _Looking for someone_ and the faintest look of pleading touched the soft mesh of his face, unbidden. Honest to _Primus_ , all he wanted was his brother. He was in no condition to cause any trouble for anyone, for any reason, and he hoped the other mech understood.

_Please! Just leave me alone!_

The seeker seemed to understand and reached out a servo as if to clasp the carrier-mech's shoulder in support.

Sideswipe fell back. He wrenched his helm back and forth in sharp refusal. There was no trust here. He communicated that with perfect clarity. His fists clenched, gaze threatening, even as he gave ground and stepped further back.

 _Don’t you touch me_.

Both mechs stared at each other for a tense moment. Then the seeker flashed him a grin and just shrugged. He pointed further down the cave with a suggestive gesture, and then strode away as if he had no worries at all.

Sideswipe watched him leave, relaxing a little when the seeker disappeared around the corner without raising an alarm. He knew he couldn’t cause much trouble anyway and hoped that was the end of it. He continued on, not realizing that as soon as the seeker had rounded the corner, he'd burst into a sprint, darting towards a cell in the distance.

Nor did he hear the _wharp_ sound.

Instead, Sideswipe continued his search for his brother, picking up his pace through the converted cells, moving with caution through each cell block. He kept moving, his pede-steps careful and wary.

Three cell blocks down and numerous sleeping forms later, Sideswipe finally found who he was looking for.

 

* * *

 

It was mid-day.

Most mechs were sleeping the hot joors away, but Megatron was too restless for recharge. Instead he had spent some time converting and preparing his cell-turned-quarters for Optimus' eventual arrival.

As Optimus was too injured to speak or understand his situation, he would need help, and Megatron had already decided to force the issue regarding co-habitation.

However carefully.

He'd already located softer bedding, and worked on widening the berth without thinking, distracted with thoughts of Optimus and how best to handle him. His interface panel pinged at him, wanting to open, but he ignored it. He wasn't taking any suggestions from his overactive interface array right now, _please and thank you_. But when he resurfaced to focus on what he was doing, he discovered that instead of a larger berth, he'd made something that looked like a crude nest.

Megatron grumbled at himself.

Tearing everything apart, he started over. But he grew distracted again while thinking about the private meeting with Wreck-Gar earlier. _There is an opportunity here, but how best to grasp it?  Not to mention I need to get my servos on Wreck-Gar's little bag of treasures. They are the only supplies here suitable for new-sparks, and I may need them for my... unborn. I have the little weapon I scavenged. Perhaps he will consider a trade..._

...and when Megatron woke up from his musings _– oh for spark’s sake! –_ the nest was back.

_Damnable beast instincts._

Irritated, Megatron left the mess behind, deciding to check the lower grating again. He tromped down the tunnel and out to the under-grate, then came across Long Haul and Scavenger, both of them kicking through the trash. They were checking one particular spot along the wall, and they had been returning to it over and over again. Long Haul glanced at him as he approached.

“Have you seen anything?” Megatron asked.

Long Haul shook his helm. “Nothing. But Prowl is here, down below. We can feel him, and look. There’s a hole in the wall, down there.”

Megatron followed the angle of Long Haul’s pointing servo and nodded. There _was_ a cave of some sort below, but still no movement. Only quiet.

“Likely where the Autobots are sheltering,” Megatron murmured as he turned to leave. There was no point in lingering uselessly, and he decided to turn this little walk into an inspection of the barricade teams.

Long Haul clapped Scavenger on the shoulder comfortingly, “At least we know Prowl is safe with his buddies.”

Both Constructicons eyed each other knowingly. Then they strode away, while down below, the Ammonites remained huddled under a thick layer of trash. They had been bidden by first Hook and then Long Haul to retrieve Prowl by any means necessary. But they were low on energy and outnumbered, and so stayed hidden while biding their time.

Megatron checked on the two teams guarding the staircase barricades, satisfied to see all was well. He was just about to head back when he noticed the sound of his pede-steps seemed to change as he walked. He stepped back, stomped his foot, and then checked again in another spot.

 _Definitely a metal pad of some sort,_ he realized _._ In the corner was a suspicious-looking pile of trash and he walked over to it. Clearing some of the trash away, he came across a mess of mechanical parts. It was clearly the remains of something technical and complicated. _This could be useful. At the least it will give the Constructicons something to focus their attention on._

Megatron contacted Long Haul over the comms and ordered him back to the second level to gather up the mess. He could tell both mechs were already on their way, eager for a challenge. He passed them as he descended to the lowest grate, heading back toward the secret tunnel.

Stopping at the spot Long Haul had indicated, he still could see nothing. He stood for some time then, staring upwards, until a soft shuffling noise in the distance piqued his curiosity.

Megatron dropped down into a crouch and sought out the source of the noise.

Finding a clearer spot, Megatron froze and delight thrilled down his back strut as Prime emerged into view. He hadn't expected to find Prime so easily, even with his aggressive hunting. The surge of delight didn't last as when Prime moved closer, Megatron could see he was very distressed.

Prime was wandering down in the shallow depths below. He was wheezing, shaking, and close to overheating, but his optics were bright with determination. He was clearly looking for something, or more likely, someone.

Trash shifted under Megatron’s pede and he flinched for the noise. He watched Prime falter and was careful to stay motionless and silent. After a moment, Prime continued his search. Stopping nearby, Prime hesitated again and then start clicking loudly in several directions. It was very dangerous behavior in this place, and further evidence that something was wrong.

_Definitely looking for someone, and not happy._

Megatron began to shadow him, still unsure how he was going to get Prime out from the under-grate. Then he lost sight of Prime for the trash-drifts, and had to circle around, and for a few long minutes Megatron couldn’t find him.

Then soft huffing and a low groan sounded ahead, and Megatron recognized the unhappy sounds of engine rumbles. He was in luck. Creeping forward, he rounded a crest of trash like a lion stalking a zebra, and caught sight of something most curious.

Prime was ... _transforming_... through the grate, or trying to, at least.

 _That must be how they managed to get beneath_ _it_ , Megatron thought as he carefully placed one pede after another, slowly closing the distance between them. _Mm, that doesn’t look pleasant._

Megatron could tell Prime was uncomfortable and frightened. Unfortunately for Prime, his weight and heavier gestation tank was making things difficult. Prime's optics squeezed closed as he fought to work himself through the grating, allowing Megatron to surge forward another few steps.

Megatron crept closer and closer, and Prime saw him an instant before Megatron dove for him.

Prime managed to drop back down, but only halfway. His belly got caught as he reformed back into his robot mode too soon, now trapped between the two levels. He hissed in wild alarm as Megatron grabbed hold of him, powerful arms wrapping around him, one hand cupping below to support his off-balanced weight.

A puff of cool air graced Prime's face plates and struggling blue optics dilated wide as Megatron smiled at him. Prime could feel the delight surging through Megatron's electromagnetic fields and could see the razor-sharp denta glinting beneath Megatron's lip plating, now mere microns away from his own.

"Hello, Optimus."

 

* * *

 

Sunstreaker didn’t notice his visitor at first, as he was well and truly distracted.

Breakdown was beneath him, flat on his back plates in their shared berth. Both servos had a death grip on golden hip struts as ‘Streaker pounded the ever loving slag out of his valve.

Harsh gasps of pleasure punctuated every thrust.

Sunstreaker groaned as he peaked, thrusting down deep and hard and holding and he spilled out with a deep shudder.

Breakdown rolled them. Sunstreaker obliged, spreading his legs wider as Breakdown sank into him with a groan for the tight heat. Strong servos held Sunstreaker still, but Breakdown paused, giving him time to adjust to the invader, time for the calipers to cycle down.

Sunstreaker wasn’t impressed by the courtesy. “What is this, cuddle hour? _Frag me_ ,” Sunstreaker ordered. Breakdown grinned and upped his pace. Sunstreaker matched his movements, grinding up and into the plunging spike.

“Wish I had some of my toys,” Sunstreaker muttered over the sounds of slick metal. “I’d love to truss you up in something fitting.”

Breakdown groaned for the building charge dancing between their nodes, lighting up his sensor net. “Could probably find some cords or something,” he gasped out. “I’m game.”

Breakdown overloaded with a hiss but kept moving until Sunstreaker followed after, a last few plunging thrusts tipping Sunny over, belly tight, hips dancing, his valve rippling for the release.

Breakdown slowed but held Sunstreaker down firmly, sucking in deep vents. The smell of ozone and lubricants and transfluid of their fragging was heady and he deeply enjoyed the squeeze around his spike, the delightful post-overload spasms.

Sunstreaker started to push him off, but Breakdown refused to move. Instead, Breakdown ground down again, spike already pressurized for another go. He circled his hips, but Sunstreaker wasn't having any of that.

"My turn, slagger."

Sunstreaker smashed him back just long enough to flip Breakdown over. Sunstreaker took him again, from behind and a new angle, shoving the other mech’s face plates into the mess that was their shared berth. He gave no pause and no quarter and started to thrust again, grinding as calipers struggled to catch his plunging spike. Finally they clamped down on him and his spike began working over the nodes, brutal thrusts battering the ceiling node.

Sunstreaker moaned in soft gasps, drowning in the sensation, riding the rising crest of overload, wiping all other thoughts and feelings and worries away. His spike and valve both ached wonderfully for the rough treatment, and he knew Breakdown felt the same, the other gasping and pushing back against him, moving with his fierce rhythm, clutching at the berth frame for balance and leverage.

Then there was a shuffle nearby, and Sunstreaker came out of the fragging-haze with a start. He was most upset to find an ugly, battered wreck of a Junkion staring at him like he was the second coming of Primus.

Sunstreaker managed to keep his explosive temper in check. The Junkions were generally decent sorts, they just didn’t seem to understand the concept of privacy and personal space and not _interrupting mechs_ while they were _fragging_.

This particular Junkion had something of a pot belly and looked…well, junkier than usual. He could see hints of smoother metal beneath the piled dreck, suggestions of shapely curves, but the view was utterly ruined by what laid over.

Worse, the wreck was just…staring at him, open-mouthed and optics devouring.

Finally the walking trash-pile realized he had Sunstreaker’s attention. He sucked in a breath as if preparing himself for something and stepped forward. He raised his servos and tried to gesture as if to communicate (not that Sunstreaker gave a flying frag what this alien freak wanted) but the movements weren't coordinated.

Sunstreaker’s lip plating quirked in disgust. “What the frag are you doing in here? Get out. Now.” But his words had no effect and he could discern no meaning from the insistent hand movements, not that he was very good at Hand or galactic sign language anyway.

In a stunning show of decency considering the situation, Sunstreaker didn’t touch the other mech, clearly too battered to be capable of any sort of physical altercation. But he only barely held his violent temper. From the look of him, the wreck probably couldn’t take even a single hit, but he wanted it to _go away._

How clearer did he need to be? “I said get _lost,_ aft-stain.”

“Heh,” Breakdown laugh was muffled for his face still shoved into their shredded berth pad, feeling Sunny’s spike paused mid-thrust and he squeezed his valve in reminder. “Now you know how _I_ feel.”

Sunstreaker shot Breakdown a threatening look he couldn’t see, punctuating it with a brutal thrust. Breakdown groaned again and Sunstreaker returned his attention to the wreck in his cell-room, still standing way too close him.

“Take a picture,” Sunstreaker finally snapped, “and get the _frag_ away from me.” He was satisfied when his words had the intended effect. The other mech reacted as if he had been given a physical blow for the sheer hate thrown in his direction. Then he actually took several steps forward and tried to gesture again, but Sunstreaker had had enough. He wasn’t in any sort of mental place for charades, nor did he have the patience to be merciful or understanding.

Sunstreaker pulled out of Breakdown with a snarl of rage and leapt up, spike still erect but already starting to depressurize. “I was trying to be polite–”

Sunstreaker strode forward while Breakdown cheered him on – “ _bust_ his stupid aft!” – until he wasn’t even a hands-breadth away from the rude, miserable Junkion.

“–but you are _treading_ on my last fragging _circuit–_ ”

There was a sudden burst of an EM field trying to overlay him. The intimacy implied further enraged Sunstreaker, but still he held on _– barely! –_ to his hate with both servos. He only knocked the other mech away. There was a flash-sense of the other, strangely familiar, but it was too fleeting to process. That and he really didn’t give a flying frag where he might have met this Junkion before.

“I am trying to **_frag_** ,” Sunstreaker roared out his last warning. “Now for the last time, you better **_slag off_**!”

Breakdown was sitting up, amusement draining away as his evening was now in danger. Sunny was _torqued_. Transfluid slicked his thighs and trickled down his legs and they'd just gotten started... Breakdown had no qualms about damaging the weak mech. He stood up and also started to stride forward, his face plates dark with warning.

Thankfully the Junkion was starting to get the point, and raised his servos in a meek gesture of surrender. It was the first understandable thing he’d done since the encounter began. They both watched as he started edging away. Sunstreaker hurried him along by stomped the floor in crystal clear threat, his beautiful face plates contorted into a far less beautiful rage.

The wreck finally, fully, heeded the warning from the two threatening Lamborghinis. He took several steps back, hesitating, and then wobbled out of the cell and away.

…

 

Sideswipe leaned against the wall, shaking from a mix of relief and fear, the latter surging through his lines from the carrier coding. It was screaming at him to _flee, get away_ … but it wasn’t from _him_ and he forced himself to ignore it.

Because from _him_ there was only happiness.

Sideswipe’s half-spark was filled to overflowing with relief and joy. He tried, but he couldn’t stop shaking for the joyful pounding in his chest. He had been so worried for his stupid brother, and to see Sunny looking so good, hell, even his stupid _paint_ still looked good… he felt that horrible weight of fear and anxiety lift off his shoulders. It tumbled down off his back. Leaving him so much lighter.

Optical fluid dripped to the floor and he shook for the relief. It was _hell_ to love someone like this, sometimes.

Sideswipe felt like he could let go now and focus on himself. Himself and... and the…his… newspark… _whatever_. He could focus on surviving now. Sunstreaker was _fine_. He'd even snagged himself a friend or frag-buddy or _whatever_. 

Sideswipe didn’t recognize the mech, couldn’t have remembered his name even if he did. Now he felt reassured enough about everything that it didn't matter. Now he could worry about himself foremost.

Behind him, Sideswipe could hear them starting up again, rutting like angry animals and he knew he should go. He had touched his brother and Sunny was okay, and that was enough. It was what he'd needed to function. But he stayed and listened for a while longer, staying just out of sight. He wanted to peek at Sunny, just spend some time watching him, but he recognized his brother’s moods. He knew damned better than to push Sunny any further.

But he listened to his brother’s voice for a few moments longer, listened to the sounds of fragging and Sunny moaning and feeling his own spike pressurizing a little as the tip peeked out of his sheath and his valve tightened... but _that thing_ was still inside him. It killed his mood, but he closed his optics and the sound of his brother’s pleasure was so very comforting.

Finally he gave in to the rushing in his audials, his overheating body, and the pulsing terror surging from his carrier coding. He turned to flee back down to the lower levels, back to the others.

 _Prime needs me,_ Sideswipe reminded himself.

Not with words but a wash of blue and red color and that feeling of being _needed_ and _wanted_ and _useful._ Suddenly the looming and hovering didn’t seem so bad. He wouldn’t mind disappearing into one of those huge bear hugs right now, the ones the Prime kept handing out anytime anyone starting looking like things were too much to take.

Sideswipe’s optical fluid dried around his eyes. A hot wash of resolve flooded through him. It strengthened his spinal strut and filled him with a sense of purpose.

He started limping back towards the open area. Back towards the grating so he could slip back through and get back to the others, and as he moved one non-thought kept reoccurring to him.

It replayed as a mix of imagery and emotion; he and his brother playing tag across endless Cybertronian highways... that feeling he felt when he won. But more pressing was the feeling when he _lost_ and then the next flood of emotion was sudden embarrassment and a deep sense of shame. He was always in competition with his brother. He'd always been considered handsome, but now he was...he felt like he was hideous. Broken and weak and pathetic. Sunny didn’t even _recognize_ him anymore. Didn't know it was him. Didn't know. Didn't...

Suddenly he was wildly grateful for that.

Plausible deniability was in play now. He could get back to civilization and get fixed and then show up like nothing had ever happened. Sunny didn’t even need to know what had happened. He didn’t need to see – wouldn’t have to know! – what he'd looked like. What he looks like. What they’d done to him.

Things could be like they used to be.

A deep, long in-vent and suddenly he understood why Sunny never wanted to talk about his captivity with the humans. Understood that distant look in his brother’s optics from way back then and _Primus_ he would never say another word to Sunny about it, never ever, ever again–

Overwhelmed with relief and embarrassment and fear and joy and everything in between, Sideswipe missed the _clunk clunk clunk_ of rapid pede-falls behind him.

Not until they were right on top of him.

There was a clatter from behind, and Sideswipe whirled. Bright red optics and blue and purple and grey wings filled his vision and then there were mechs all around him. He saw more flashes of light blue, purple, and red wings. He went down with a snarl, his pede bouncing off thick armor plating he had no hope of fighting against.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a week ago life kicked me in the teeth pretty bad. I won’t bore anybody with the details, but things really, really suck right now. So unless I can pull a Cave Johnson and burn life's house down with the crap lemons it’s given me (unlikely) I can’t spend as much time as I want writing. I was doing a chapter a week, but for now I will be posting updates as I get the chapters done, with no set update schedule... just until things go back to being sane again.


	13. Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Megatron exercises his newly developed sense of patience, and the noose tightens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** This story can get very dark, and please be aware of that. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :)

 

_Tink! Tink! Tink!_

Optimus Prime was punching Megatron in the face plates. 

The strikes _almost_ hurt, and it was an impressive feat considering they were coming from a bare servo. A lesser species might succumb to the frantic violence, but Megatron's plating was super-dense. His current armature rig was the best Soundwave and Shockwave's combined efforts could offer.

Catching Prime between the lowest level and the ground, Megatron had taken full advantage of the situation. Now Prime's back lay flush against Megatron's front and he wrapped one arm snug around Prime’s abdominals. The scent of his counterpart wildly excited him, teasing his nasal sensors as he kept Prime from escaping to the safety of the under-grate. 

Prime’s protesting clicks and engine-grumbles completely backfired; they only triggered the guardian coding’s protective urges and Megatron’s grip grew ever more possessive for all the unhappy noises. Powerful fingers greeted Prime’s mesh with a delighted little squeeze. Prime reacted by half-twisting around, uncomfortable for the position but enduring as he struggled to keep landing hits on his captor’s face.

Balancing on his knees, Megatron ignored the twinge of pain from his steadily healing knee-joint. Instead, he felt around Prime's over-heated body with his other servo, feeling out the problem with careful fingers. After getting a decent hold, he tried to heft the other. He stopped instantly when Prime stiffened with a pained grunt. He hesitated, trying to work out the best way to get Prime the rest of the way through the grate.

_Tink! Tink! Tink!_

Prime continued to lodge his complaints with inadvisable vigor. Striking out with his left fist, his other hand remained clenched around the nearest metal slat in a death grip.

Under normal circumstances, violence aimed in Megatron’s direction would be answered with instant, brutal retaliation. That was his way and always served him well. In this case, however, he was more than content to make an exception. And so he was careful to ignore Prime’s fearful aggression. He withstood all strikes with neither injury nor offense. If anything, he found the sheer terror pulsing though Prime’s fields more confusing than anything else.

It was far from normal for Prime, even during the worst of their fights, for the worst of times. Hell, he’d torn the Matrix from Prime’s chest with his _bare servos_ during the Big Push and even then Prime had never felt so afraid as this.

“Calm down,” Megatron murmured, even though he knew Prime couldn’t understand him. “We have a peace treaty and mutual enemies. Even beyond that, we have a shared responsibility. It should be obvious by now that I don’t intend you any harm.”Far less then obvious, by the way Prime was trying to defend himself? 

Megatron didn't want to restrain Prime more than necessary as restraining him only served to make him more fearful. But soon Megatron was frowning when it became clear that Prime wasn’t going to stop.

The real problem was Prime was overheating himself. His heaving gasps were growing desperate for all his struggling. It was mid-afternoon and the starlight was burning down through the slats in bright rays of bluish light. There were crackles of heat-energy all around, and most mechs (those not stuck on barricade patrol) were sleeping off the day.

If not in the safety of the caves, extensive movement was very unwise.

Finally Megatron reached out and caught the frightened fist aiming for his face, the fingers disappearing into his much larger servo. Struck by that for a moment, he stared down at the captive hand, his own fingers tracing over the smaller ones. They were still blue, but the bright luster and strong edges provided by thick armor-plating were gone.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen..." Megatron murmured to himself, reciting words stolen from some distant blue planet.

This blue-flecked fist had always been the match for his in both size and strength. He'd always held a healthy respect for the strength Optimus Prime could bring to bear. He understood better than anyone the extent of what the Quintesson have stolen from Prime. In another age, this difference in power would have delighted him.

But not now.

Instead, Megatron gave the balled fingers a gentle, reassuring squeeze. _What has been taken will be returned. I will see you restored, and together we will stand against the Quintesson and take back our homeworld._

Megatron's thoughts were churning, but he didn’t bother with meaningful words. It was obvious to him that Prime couldn’t understand them in the slightest. Releasing the captive fist, he saw Prime pull his servo back and then stare at his own bare fingers, swallowing with a thick, rolling motion. Prime was fully aware that the shift of power between them was not in his favor.

He saw Prime look back towards the dark spaces below, then recoil at some dreadful imagining.

Then Prime’s fist re-curled.

Subdued, but too stubborn to admit defeat, Prime set his jaw and went right back to logging his complaints in the normal way they’d always used to settle their differences. Megatron grit his denta in frustration, but waited out the attempted violence. Prime was already showing signs of slowing.

_Tink! Tink!_

One last hit ... _tink! ..._ and Prime's fist dropped and fell lax. Prime slumped, too over-heated to keep fighting. Yet another reminder how far gone he was ... their battles frequently lasted hours, but right now Prime couldn't even manage astro-seconds. Overcome for now, he was heaving and his frame was shaking. He grew only further alarmed when Megatron re-adjusted his grip and pulled him even closer.

Blasting miserable heat out his vents and intakes, Prime turned his helm and tried to click his demands at Megatron.

_Release me!_

It was a clear demand, but unheeded by the dark frame holding him captive. Frustrated, Prime went back to staring in the direction of the hollow. His optics filled with longing. Megatron squeezed him again and took advantage of the calmer moment. He opened a comm to Onslaught while struggling to untangle Prime’s fingers from around the slat.

<Send Pipes down to the lowest level. Tell him to hurry.>

<Yes, sir. He’s on his way.>

Megatron cut the comm line and considered the problem. Now that he understood how Prime had managed to get under the grating, he started to undo the process. He electrified his fingers and tickled under Prime’s latches, targeting the ones that needed to release to enable transformation.

Prime chirped in shock as his lower body responded instinctively to the stimulation. He squirmed. His wriggling escalated to writhing as Megatron coaxed him through the slats one section at a time. Luck was on Megatron’s side (not that he believed in it) as Prime's gestation tank was stuck on the upper side of the grating.

After a few moments of careful coaxing, Megatron was able to pull Prime free without too much discomfort. But the instant Prime’s pedes stabilized on the grating he rallied, kicking back, whirling and fighting. He struggled, clicking angrily until he was almost too hot to function. It wasn't long until his strength ebbed. Slumping forward, he instinctively clutched at the other to try to steady himself.

Megatron’s aft hit the grating as he fell with Prime. Rolling him around mid-fall, Megatron drew Prime into his lap and closer, even as Prime's head dropped in exhaustion for the heat. Prime sagged against Megatron. He shivered as a dark servo slid up the length of his back strut and curled around his head, tucking his helm under Megatron’s chin.

Prime blinked and shook his helm, as if having trouble comprehending what was happening. “Settle down,” Megatron murmured to him, tagging open his subspace. Then he slapped at it in surprise, realizing with a hiss that he’d left the cooling gel back in his cell-room.

_Can’t stay out here much longer, then. Hurry up, Pipes!_

While Megatron checked for damage, a puff of cool ex-vent swirled over Prime’s face plates. Blinking for the airy caress, Prime went for the source and Megatron startled when lip plating parted and closed over his own.

It felt like a _kiss_.

Megatron responded as such, tilting his helm and granting access, but it wasn’t; Prime merely sucked in a deep, cooling breath. Cooler air gusted from their partially sealed intakes and Megatron’s optics widened when he realized what Prime was after, but he obliged by opening his intakes further. He let the other breathe him in and cooler air flooded through Prime’s ventilation systems. Intense heat gusted out from his dorsal and back vents, and Prime shook for the momentary relief.

 _I will need to keep a close optic on his temperature,_ Megatron realized. He took the moment to slide his fingers in soothing strokes over Prime’s too-hot mesh. _This heat could be lethal for him without his plating or the meager protection of the under-grate._

Prime gulped and gulped at the cooler air in needy pulls. Finally he pulled back, blinking. It was obvious he felt a little better for the momentary drop in internal temperature. Flushed, Megatron ran his glossa over his lip plating. He’d enjoyed that intimate touch, even though he knew there was no passion in the contact for Prime.

_Later for that, too. I will have to be patient._

Fortunately for Prime, he’d been practicing that particular art almost non-stop since his captivity with the Quintesson.

 

***

 

Pipes finally arrived a few moments later.

He'd been sent by Onslaught to the lowest levels with little explanation, and stepping out from around the corner, he was surprised to find Megatron flat on his aft. Megatron was sitting cross-legged with Prime settled into his lap. Prime's legs were hiked over Megatron’s hips, body supported by dark arms, and Prime looked smaller than usual.

Pipes relaxed a little when he could see one of Megatron's servos lay flat against the small of Prime's back strut. Megatron's fingers were moving in firm little circles, and Pipes could see Prime was leaning back against the fingers while pretending he wasn’t appreciating the lower strut rub as much as he was. His plates were missing, the deep cuts showing signs of slow healing, and his lower abdominals had extended noticeably. His interface ports weren’t visible, nestled snug and hidden against Megatron’s lower mid-riff.

While currently too over-heated to fight, Prime _was_ recovered enough to complain. Leaning forward, his dignified, disapproving face was mere microns from Megatron's. He was clearly in a bad mood. His engine was growling while he filled the super-heated air around them with insistent, protesting clicks. His hands were making uncoordinated movements that only superficially resembled language; they seemed to have no formal meaning.

It was clear to Pipes that Prime was as far from being brutally murdered by Megatron as was possible. The look on Megatron's face plates, the sheer calm of him, was further reassuring.

Megatron's strong voice spoke over the noisy protests. “Call for the other Autobots. I want everyone out of the sewer levels. They must be starving down there, and they have open wounds, likely suffering rust infections from the filth. If they have any sense left to them, they will follow us back to safety. It is for their own good.”

Pipes nodded reluctantly and stepped forward. Track's warning lay heavy on his processor, but he still obeyed Megatron’s order as previously agreed. Pipes still flinched for the harsh look Prime shot his way. Especially when he started shouting down into the darkness.

“Guys? Can you hear me? It’s Pipes!”

Prime fell silent. He stared sullenly at his errant Autobot. He couldn’t see anything to suggest Pipes was under some kind of control. As far as Prime could tell, it seemed he was luring the other Autobots into a dangerous situation.

Recognizing his upset, Pipes shot Prime a soft look, but kept calling. “Guys! Hey guys! Are you down there?”

Heavy, tromping pede-steps preceded the Constructicons as they came down the staircase shortly after. Long Haul and Scavenger had the damaged device cradled between them while Mixmaster carried armfuls of the smaller components. Trailing behind was an unburdened Hook. They all perked up and chattered amongst themselves when they saw Megatron had captured Prime and Pipes was relieved when Megatron ordered them onward.

“Keep walking,” Pipes heard Megatron snap at them. It was obvious Megatron didn’t want them hovering around and frightening off the understandably shy Autobots. Pipes was certain he could already see hints of blue light in the darkness below. But the reassurance Megatron called after the Constructicons killed his relief dead on the spot.

“–I will contact you as soon as Prowl is in custody.”

Pipes blinked at that, then looked down at his scratched-up hands. He felt unsure of the situation. Why did he feel like he was doing something wrong? He remembered Prowl had tolerated the Constructicons hovering around him before the Quints attacked, but the Constructicons … they weren’t _nice_.

Pipes watched as Long Haul nodded at Megatron with a sincere "thanks," and then hurried his team on. Standing well to the side, Pipes watched as they plodded by, and tendrils of anxiety whirled out from his spark to the tune of their heavy pede-treads.

 

***

 

“I’ll prep our workshop for your arrival,” Hook called out to Megatron as he passed. “The key-logger I was using to remove the collars should work on those…valve devices.”

But there was a tremor in Hook’s vocalizer, a hidden undertone of glee. These sort of injures were his favorites and he couldn’t wait to get started. So much potential amusement. So much squirming and embarrassment and desperate optic-rolling. There was a bounce in Hook's step as he headed up the secret tunnel.

Megatron inclined his helm in acknowledgement, a faint frown touching the edges of his lips. A few paces away, Pipes mumbled something that ended in "creepy" and Megatron could only agree. But whatever Hook’s mental processes, his work was always above reproach, even if his manner summed up in one glyph: unnerving.

 _It doesn't matter,_ and Megatron fully intended to supervise Hook during the proceedings. _Optimus must be cleared of the Quint tech first thing._   _Might be wise to blindfold Optimus first to cut down on stress, as Hook’s bedside manner offers little in the way of reassurance. The Constructicon’s med-station looks questionable even at the best of times_. _Distress must be minimized as much as possible for the injured._

Prime’s bare mesh felt so soft under his fingers. He couldn’t help the pounding of his spark and his servos curled in a possessive grip around the other frame. Thanks to the guardian coding, he could feel and smell Prime's distress, smell his needy gestation tank. The intimate ports below felt especially hot, pressed as they were against his lower belly. All the squirming and huffing excited him and warmed his array, further triggering his beast instincts and he struggled to keep himself from nuzzling the other. He wanted to press long, sucking kisses along those sleek neck cables, nibbling down, down, and tasting him, soothing little licks up his sore valve, lath him until he was sopping, wanted to push him back, fill him up, serve him with mouth and body and spark–

 _Optimus must ask for that,_ and Megatron reminded himself of that with harsh ferocity. He reined in those base desires, interlaced with the beast code with such overwhelming intimacy.  _I have no rights to anything beyond offering care as duty to an injured mech burdened down under a shared responsibility. Prime must initiate all... intimacy. I will face him later in the court of his private judgment and he is already wary. I will answer for all actions when he has recovered._

_Prime must ask._

Instead, Megatron contented himself to provide a more platonic back rub. He knew Prime better than anyone. He had some sense where the line was normally drawn. He was still reasonably assured to be able to touch the other; reassured as he could feel Prime was calming just a little, reassured by the little shivers of relief in Prime’s EM field under the unusual fear.

_If the beast code is so strong within me, perhaps this fear is from Prime’s version of it? Something to discuss with Hook, perhaps, if there is any way to calm it._

Not long after, pale blue optics started appearing at the edges of the trash-cover. Jazz appeared foremost of the dim eye-shine, functioning as Prime’s second in command. His optics dilated wide when he saw Prime held captive by Megatron.

Jazz’s optics went cold as ice. He questioned his Prime with stilted, wary movements… _orders?_

Prime responded with frantic motions, unbalancing himself in his fervor. _Stay away! Stay safe! Protect the others!_ Prime remained frantic even as Megatron kept him from falling backwards.

 _This must be why he is so afraid,_ Megatron realized. He could feel Prime’s terror spiking for the little group of fearful optics glinting in the darkness below. _He is frightened for himself, yes, but even more so for his mechs_. _They will need to come up with him._

Megatron was unable to glean any meaning from Prime’s frantic gestures, but he grew frustrated when he could tell Prime was further alarming the mechs below. He didn’t try to control Prime’s frantic servos, however. He was certain it would only make things worse. Instead he tried to call down reassurance to them.

“We intend you no harm. Do you not remember our peace treaty? You must all come to the upper levels. We have fuel, berths, and you will be provided medical attention. You will be far safer among your own people then in the bowels of this miserable place.”

Megatron wasn’t sure if his words made sense to them. Then he sighed as the Autobots merely shrank away from the sound of his vocalizer. "Pipes, speak with your former faction mates. Try to make them understand." 

Pipes cleared his vocalizer and three pairs of blue optics oriented on him. He didn’t like the accusing look in Jazz’s optics, but he stepped forward anyway. He knelt down to one knee and held out his hands in offering. He gave it a good try, but only a few words in and he realized they were all staring at his outstretched hands. There was no understanding in their optics and his vocalizer trailed off under the weight of their distraught, confused expressions.

Pipes could tell they didn’t understand what was happening. “I don’t think they understand me. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.” It didn't help his confidence any that Prime and Jazz were staring at him with tight, tense faces, trying but failing to understand him. Their upset with the situation was painful to see. But it was impossible for Pipes to communicate in a way they could understand. He was terrible at hand gestures, so much so that he’d hardly even learned Hand.

Pipes turned towards Megatron with pleading optics. “Maybe if you let Prime go–”

“–absolutely not.” Megatron waved at Pipes, entirely dismissive of the notion. Unconscious of himself while distracted, he squeezed Prime a little tighter against his chest plates. “Keep trying. We cannot leave them here.”

 

***

 

 Jazz watched that particular exchange with sharp optics. He pointed at Pipes and looked questioningly up at Optimus. _Is Pipes being controlled somehow?_

 _I don’t think so,_ and Optimus made a crude slashing motion with his fingers, almost too upset to try to make sense. _Now get out of here!_

Glowering at both Pipes and Megatron, Jazz dropped his helm with a soft series of clicks. Forced to accept momentary defeat, Jazz kept eye contact with Optimus, his gaze filled with longing. But Optimus only repeated the _go, go, get out of here_ motions.

Optimus was insistent, demanding.

As far as Optimus was concerned, the only thing that would make this situation worse would be if the others were captured because of _his_ stupidity. He’d known better than to go after the helm-strong and now missing Sideswipe. Thanks to his unforgivable – of himself, always – stupidity, his battered little group ran the risk of starving to death.

Jazz was beyond upset.

 _Frag this,_ _frag all this,_ and then Jazz made a harsh motion towards Pipes – _betrayer_ – and slipped back under the protective cover of darkness. He herded the rest of the distressed blue optics away; back towards the hollow, back to safety.

For now, anyway.

Optimus shrank into himself as he watched Jazz and the others retreat, dim blue lights disappearing back into the darkness, his spark churning in equal measures of relief and fear for them as over those, his true feelings, the beast coding sluiced hot terror down his lines.

Optimus could feel no threat from his old adversary, only from a situation that would see his friends starve to death. Still wanting to fight, he squirmed again, but the arms wrapped around him were insistent. Looking up, his optics focused on random parts of the other’s body, leaving Megatron’s face blurred.

He couldn't get a sense for Megatron's expression, and had to focus on nonvisuals instead.

A purring engine was rumbling against his front, and the fields around him were filled with more positive emotions than anything else. There was constant soothing noise in his audials. Beyond that, a thick scent was emanating from Megatron.

It teased his nasal sensors, a potent form of information exchange in the way of pheromones. That scent was both promise and offer, and animal need warmed his interface array. Gestation tank low on fluid, his frame ached for attention of a particular sort, however impossible with the miserable invader below. Still, lubricant welled up around it. He knew he was leaving little trickles down Megatron's dark body, and he winced.

But if Megatron noticed, there was no offense taken.

In fact, nothing from Megatron seemed hostile or damaging in the slightest, and _damn him_ but he smelled so good right now.

Optimus pulled in a reluctant breath of too-hot air and felt a cooling gust of breath back and realized their lips were only microns apart. More of that soft rumbling noise was offered, and then they bumped nasal sensors and he withdrew his helm nervously. Megatron intentionally pressed forward and offered his intakes, tracing the edge of the captive ones and he almost took the offer, lips parting and then he remembered this mech wasn’t going to _let him go_.

It was confusing and comforting and infuriating, this captivity. His back strut felt so much better for the rubdown, his spark was trying to cycle down for all the soothing noises, but the fear for his mechs and sheer terror from the coding was _relentless_. He was too damned hot and had no idea what to do.

"Don't worry so much, Optimus," Megatron murmured into a distressed audial as he started to climb to his pedes. "I will see them safely out from under that miserable grate, I promise you. Rescue must begin somewhere and may as well start with you."

If he had understood any of that, Optimus might have felt better, except he wouldn’t have agreed with the last part in the slightest.

 

* * *

 

Thrust, Ion Storm, Dirge, and Skywarp wrestled the frightened wreck down to the ground. Working together, they wrapped him up in a thin tarp and then hurried away. Gazes furtive, they took care to make sure no one had seen them.

Skywarp tapped his helm for _keep this in private comms_ and the others nodded and hurried down the main walkway. Fortunately it was deep in the day-cycle, and most mechs were recharging. Other than the occasional rustles of sleepy movements and soft gasps of interfacing mechs, all was quiet.

<Down here,> Ion Storm called out over their private line. Following his lead, they hurried past cells of sleeping mechs, towards the deeper parts of the cave for some privacy.

Thrust's wings flared a little. <Does Air Commander Thundercracker know about this?> He didn’t want to do anything to damage his chances for promotion. Not that he doubted Skywarp. He'd been assured that Thundercracker was considering him and that he was a total shoe-in for the command trine … but still.

<Nope.> Skywarp snorted as they headed further the darker levels. <Thundercracker doesn’t count as Command anyway. We don’t need any help with this.>

Ion Storm snorted. <Doesn't count as Command? I would like to see you say that to his face plates–>

<Already have.>

Ion Storm blinked in shock. <How the _hell_ are you still in possession of your wings? >

<See my original statement.> Skywarp's vocalizer sounded dismissive, but his wing tips betrayed him. They shivered with a particular sort of unhappiness.

Dirge immediately slowed. <Wait, you mean this isn’t authorized by Command?> The reality of what they were doing filtered through his processor and his wings flared. <Are you saying we shouldn’t be doing this?>

Skywarp aside, the rest of them were under no delusions as to who was in charge of the Armada. As he wasn't the recipient of any sort of unfair, special protection, Dirge’s enthusiasm toppled like Trailbreaker after an all-night bender. But the others ignored his nervous prattling as they were too busy looking for a decent spot.

Currently unoccupied, the furthest cells were too far from the entrance for any light to penetrate. Only glowing optics and biolighting served as a light source, but as their sensors adjusted for the low light levels, it was plenty. Checking through the empty cell-rooms, they continued to look for a cleaner one, and soon they were far enough away for privacy.

Dirge followed after, reluctance dragging at his pedes, slowing his pace. Working his intakes, his optics darted toward the struggling bundle over Skywarp’s shoulder. His prattling filled their private comms with misgivings.

<The Air Commander said the carrying mechs were off-limits. He said if we see one we are to report him immediately and then keep our distance. He said they could activate the coding the Quints infected us with. He said– >

<He said _this_ , he said _that_ ,> Skywarp taunted Dirge while smirking over his shoulder. <Don’t care. It’s not dangerous. Just means you get wetter and last longer. The horror!>

Dirge scowled for the teasing. <That’s not all it does! And what if we get in trouble?>

<Here,> Ion Storm called out. <This one is good.> They hurried inside one of the better-looking ones. The outside bars were much like all the others; covered in scrap and slag for privacy.

Dirge hesitated, staying outside the cell while the others kicked at random scrap piles, clearing a space. <Is that why you wouldn’t let me call Hook?>

"Hook is a _freak_ about stuff like this,” Ion Storm said aloud as he dragged a soft, shredded padding cover over to the middle of the cell. “This mech has been through enough already, right?”

Skywarp didn’t like Dirge’s tone. He was irritated now, feeling like he needed to defend his decision to leave Command out of their little rescue operation.

“We are going to clean him up ourselves,” he said as he pulled the bundle from across his shoulders. “It’s not like Hook can do anything for him that _we_ can’t. Their med-station’s a joke. Anyways, we take care of our own. We can handle this.”

Ion Storm nodded agreement, but winced for the smell of the pad cover he was spreading out. Old and dusty, it was covered with oil spots and other grunge. He turned it over, but the other side wasn't any better. Then Thrust offered him a folded tarp, which Ion Storm accepted gratefully. He wrapped it around the berth pad for cleanliness.

“This wasn’t my idea,” Dirge began backpedaling. It was the standard Decepticon _I won’t say anything but leave me out of this_ nervous waffling.

“If you don’t get in trouble sometimes then you aren’t doing anything worthwhile,” Thrust said as he lifted and dropped his wings with a harsh _click._

Everyone else dismissed Dirge with a groan and a wave.

“Either get your aft in here and help or _get lost_ , frag-helm.” Skywarp's wings slated back as he added, “And if you are getting lost, then close that door.”

Relieved, Dirge obliged and closed the cell door. He nudged a piece of some mech’s outer brain case against the bottom to keep it closed. Then he strode away with settling wings, washing his servos of the situation and the punishment that might come with it.

Skywarp watched Dirge leave with a derisive glower. "Whatever."

“Limp-winged coward,” Ion Storm muttered after the retreating mech.

Meanwhile, all manners of rags and little bottles of solvent and other hoarded goodies appeared from Ion's subspace. He carefully set them to the side while Thrust added a jug of thicker oil and a container of clean fluid to the pile.

“What’s a little punishment amongst Seekers, when it really matters?”

Skywarp nodded full agreement. "Let's unwrap him. Make sure that door is locked..."

Then he placed the restrained mech on the pad while Thrust checked the door. They encircled around the squirming bundle and settled down.

The battered mech was on his front when the last bit of tarp slid free. Skywarp hissed in surprise, fighting to hold on to him. It was obvious he expected the worst sort of treatment from them; he was fighting like a maniac.

“You can tell he’s starting to cool down,” Skywarp said as he grabbed his legs and forced him to stay still, the thrashing growing more animated.

“Yep, you were right, ‘Warp,” Thrust pressed down on the small of the mech’s back while they looked him over. “Look at the latches. He’s a flight frame for sure. Maybe one of the Aerialbots.”

“Close enough,” Ion Storm grabbed hold of the carrier-mech’s arms. “Flight frames stick together … but which one is he? He needs a name.”

Skywarp started rattling off the few Aerialbot names he remembered, but the mech didn’t respond to any of them.

“Huh. Nothing. Well, what’s a good name for a total wreck?”

“Don’t be an insensitive aft,” Ion Storm hissed.

But it was a futile demand to insist someone not be what they are. Thus he was not surprised when Skywarp lifted and dropped his wings _click_ and pronounced the mech’s new designation after a moment of outright gleeful contemplation.

“Bare-Aft-Wings,” Skywarp decided. “That’s his name.”

Ion Storm was not amused in the slightest. “You can frag right off with that–”

“How did you even recognize him?” Thrust asked as he frowned at the mess. “Barewings looks like a Junkion.”

“We are not calling him that!”

…but it was a fair question. Under the spot lights of their optics, his frame was a mess of parts and wires and cords and pieces of ruin. His bad mood completed the scene; he wasn’t happy in the slightest. He thrashed in fury as three pairs of servos rolled and wrestled him onto his back and blue optics blinked up aggressively at three pairs of red.

“His brand,” Skywarp grinned and pointed at it with his chin while controlling the flailing servos. “He covered himself with junk to sneak in but forgot to hide the Quint brand. Soon as I realized he was one of us, it was easy enough to see him.”

“Bet you were damned pretty when you had your plates,” Skywarp added, and two pairs of wings flicked agreement. The mech did have beautiful lines beneath the mess, and everyone stared, optics un-focusing somewhat while admiring what once was.

Then Thrust and Ion Storm worked to remove his messy disguise while Skywarp held him down, until he lay bare before them. They fell silent then, all taken aback at the reality of what they were seeing.

Exposure of this level was normally only encountered during severe medical procedures or exotic, specialty brothels, and so their initial reaction was a little confused. Seeing something like this either meant something was terribly wrong or going _very_ right. The quiet lingered as they took in the damage and they all mentally ticked over to the ‘terribly wrong’ category.

“They really did skin him alive,” Ion Storm looked horrified as he’d thought the rumors were exaggerated. “You can see where they cut him. I knew they were _freaks,_ but–”

“Seriously,” Skywarp hissed again. “Fragging Quints!”

Thrust helped hold the mech down while doing his best not to further harm the delicate body. “Poor Barewings. I _knew_ you mechs didn’t believe me. And look at his head. That cut looks … _surgical_.”

“What the frag is in his valve?” Skywarp dropped a hand down towards his own interface panel in horrified sympathy.

“Some sort of connective device,” Ion Storm murmured, peering down at it with disgust. Were there no depths the Quintesson hadn’t sunk to? “Can you remove it?”

“Maybe we should take him to Hook after all,” Skywarp said with a nervous twitch of his wings. The apparatus was alarming-looking to an extreme. They could see it was heavily attached, covered with lots of little wires that connected to the nodes and clusters of connectors deeper inside. They were even holding the secondary valve cover open. From the look of things, it was attached to the gestation tank itself, and they all knew better then to just start yanking on it.

Ion Storm winced while staring down at the vulnerable mech. “Hook would _love_ this.”

Everyone shared a cringe and three pairs of wings drooped and they stared intently at the problem while trying to figure out some way of keeping him out of Hook’s gleeful servos.

Meanwhile Sideswipe stared at them staring at him, further scowling when he realized they were way too interested in his uncovered ports. He promptly assumed the worst of them and chirped in outrage.

 _Seriously_?

He was messed up and filthy and carrying and were they seriously thinking about doing … _that … to_ him? He was so torqued off at the thought that he even managed to slip a pede loose enough to kick Skywarp in the interface panel in furious retaliation, to ‘Warp’s complete surprise.

“Why you little–”

Three pairs of wings flicked and flared in amused comradery for the warrior spirit burning back at them through the mech’s furious expression.

What a trooper. Seeker for sure, this one.

Honorary title promptly bestowed for the sheer size of his bearings, everyone shared another look and Ion Storm winced. “Are we _really_ turning him over to Hook?”

“If that _thing_ is similar to the collars,” Thrust suggested, “then that cobbled-together override tool Hook was using might work the same on this–”

“Here, hold him.” Skywarp said and with a _wharp_ he was gone.

 

* * *

 

Megatron watched with disappointment as the Autobots completely disappeared under the deeper grating.

“That didn’t go well at all.” Pipes’ fingers twisted themselves into knots for his apprehension.

Megatron was forced to agree. “We will have to use stronger measures; traps perhaps, corner them if we must. I don’t like the idea of chasing them, but they can’t stay down here.”

“Please, just let Prime go,” Pipes pleaded, feeling like some sort of betrayer. “They would be happier if they stayed together until we can–”

“Pipes, this isn’t about _happiness_ ,” and Megatron forced himself to answer the pleading with the utmost calm. He was unwilling to threaten the timid bond of trust he’d built with this panicky mech, the canary in the mine for his leadership over the other Autobots.

“This is about protection, fuel, and immediate medical attention for mechs injured in the most appalling of ways by our hated enemies. This is an _intervention_. Yes, Prime is currently very displeased with me. But I know that later, when he demands to know what the hell I was doing, I can look him straight in the optic and say; _saving your life_.”

Megatron glanced down at Prime with a wry smile, “and _that_ I know he will forgive.”

Nodding haplessly, Pipes was unable to find enough courage to argue with The Slagmaker over any of that. He began to walk back towards the Commons to find Snarl.

Megatron returned his attention back to the mech currently shaking in his arms. He blinked when Prime in-vented deeply and then bumped into his nasal sensor, pulling back with unfocused optics. He offered his intakes, but Prime seemed confused and pulled back at the last instant. He could feel little trickles of lubricant dripping out and down his lower frame, and he assumed it was in response to the heat. He began coaxing Prime to his pedes, not surprised when Prime struggled to stand, far too hot for much else. It was well past mid-day now and the entire sunken prison was too hot for words.

 _Best carry him then,_ Megatron decided. _The less he exerts himself the better until I can get him cooled down._ Reaching down, he slid his servo along the back of Prime’s legs, not liking how hot he felt. Working to get a good enough grip to lift him, he could hear how Prime was instinctively struggling to ventilate while simultaneously trying _not_ to, as sucking in the hot air around him was not helping in the slightest.

Prime clicked at him, trying to wrestle free. He didn't want to be carried and tried to plant his pedes. But Megatron merely shifted his weight to counter him, fully intent on lifting him anyway. “You are overheating,” he murmured. “We need to get you into the cave and cool you down.”

Megatron could tell Prime was struggling with himself, beyond upset, and then he went back to trying to lift him. Prime worked his dry intakes, balled a fist, and began to explain, in no uncertain terms, just how unhappy he was with this entire situation.

_Tink! Tink! Tink!_

Megatron ignored the hits and hefted him up. One arm slid under the crook of his legs, the other wrapped around his back and cupped around his belly. A faint smile touched his lip plating when, once again, he felt movement under his fingers even as Prime continued his protests.

"You are overheating yourself for nothing, Optimus," and Megatron tilted his face away from the ever more enfeebled strikes. He returned to murmuring reassurances while opening a comm line to enlist Scavenger’s help. “You should know by now I’m not going to injure you,” he continued as the line connected, “now for _spark’s sake,_ calm down before you hurt yourself.”

<Sir?>

Megatron grunted as Prime head butted him in reply. That actually _did_ hurt, but more Prime then him. He offered Prime a rueful smile and presented the other side of his helm for another hit. He couldn’t quite keep the smirk off his face plates when Prime ceased that particular attack, his own helm obviously ringing.

<I need a tub of fluid in my room, several tarps, clean rags, and a decent amount of cooling gel for my … new roommate. Can I trust you to take care of that for me?>

<Of course, sir.>

There was a thread of embarrassment winding through Prime’s fields now, underneath the guilt and terror. Megatron shook his helm, _so very needless_ , and he strode towards the secret tunnel as Prime settled for engine-rumble-threatening instead, his strength fading fast.

<Thank you, Scavenger. I appreciate your help. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how helpful you have been to _all_ of your brothers here. I wish I had ten of you. >

Megatron could all but hear the delighted squirming across the comm line and cut the link, satisfied. A few words of praise did wonders for that particular Constructicon. If only all interactions could be so easy…

_Tink! Tink! …Tink!_

“Oh I know,” Megatron murmured at the frustrated mech in his arms as he walked with his precious armful. “Believe me, Prime, I know. You are an angry, angry truck.” He knew he was affected by the beast code, knew this softly vocalized, crooning-speech was beneath him, but right now he didn’t care.

Prime blinked at the soothing-teasing tone, chuffed a little, and then continued to put up a fight. He felt ridiculous and out of control, but he didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t focus or concentrate, couldn’t explain the problem, couldn’t break free, and was far too hot to put up a real fight. Worse, he knew he was pathetically ineffective in this state without a weapon.

But his mechs were in danger, and Prime refused to yield, and so the ineffective punching continued.

 

* * *

 

Thundercracker heard something in the distance. Muffled, distant, the sound of grinding interrupted?

Climbing up the trash pile, he stared out across the energy shield to the courtyard. Overlord was standing with his helm back and chest thrust forward. His minions were dragging some sort of crude device from his chambers, the metal of the bulky thing forced along the metal slats of the courtyard with noisy _screes_ of complaint. The thing looked like nothing short of a battering ram ... but that wasn’t what he’d heard.

It had been a tinny sound from far away, like metal striking metal. A _drilling_ sound. Thundercracker raised the alarm through his comms and Long Haul and Onslaught arrived a short time later to take a look. They all stood near the energy shield generator, watching the commotion on the other side with tightly clenched plating.

The air was filled with tension, and then Megatron joined the Command channel a moment later. His background engine rumbles were obvious, but there was a second sound that was also recognizable … _tink! tink! tink!_ … the continuous sounds of punching as filtered through Megatron’s comm-line.

“What the frag is _that_?” Long Haul said as he peered at Overlord's device with distaste. The thing was covered in harsh angles, odd-looking levers and gauges, and more rust spots then the scruffiest junkion. It offended all of his sensibilities.

<Prime is displeased to be relocated to safer surroundings,> Megatron grumbled, providing a wrong answer to the question.

Megatron's slow, clunking pede-steps echoed faintly through the comm line as he was speaking with both Command and also to Prime. Though it was designed to pick up only internal conversation, the HUD microphone still managed to detect some of Megatron's spoken words. The rest of Command could hear both conversations if they strained their audials hard enough (and they all did).

<Just ignore it. Now, what is happening? Nothing too dire I assume, from the lack of general disorder in the Commons? …… _"for spark’s sake Prime!_ ">

No one dared say a word, but everyone listened in all the same.

Onslaught sent Megatron a visual feed through his HUD and then snorted. “I’ll tell you what it is. It’s some kind of shield cracker.”

<Mm. That does look rather ominous, doesn’t it? …… _"enough of that! Holding on to railings like an angry sparklet is beneath you!"_ >

<I don’t know.> Thundercracker tilted his helm, listening. The strange sound was gone, but it had been there. He hadn’t imagined it. <I heard something. Maybe tunneling? But I couldn’t make out the direction it was coming from.>

Onslaught snorted again and dismissed the notion. <We’d all hear digging if that was the case.>

<I agree, tunneling is not quiet work. Thundercracker, are you certain that is what you heard? …… _"oh for the love of, must I really tie your hands?" >  
_

<I’m not certain,> Thundercracker instinctively backpedaled, and then stopped himself. He was trying to seem more confident, but the damage was already done.

Onslaught held little respect for waffling. <Then let it go.>

Long Haul continued to glare at the device in the distance. <I’d bet my left wheel that is a broken communication console re-arranged to look more menacing. Distraction for sure.>

Then they all blinked as static, scrabbling servos, and angry diesel engine grumbles blasted through Megatron’s comm line and then smoothed away. < _"…there, much better...oh don’t look at me like that! This is just so we can make it to our room sometime this cycle. You are being ridiculous!"_ >

Straining their audials to the max, Command would later swear upon wings, fists, and tow winch they heard him _crooning_ at the Prime.

Thundercracker, Long Haul, and Onslaught shared a look. Dead silence. TC’s wings twitched. Long Haul coughed. No one wanted to be the first to break down and titter. Megatron was the _Slagmaker_. There could be _consequences_.

The moment passed, and Onslaught frowned for the deeper issue with their leader's actions. “Are we really tying them down now? You know how that is going to look to some of our more… sensitive _…_ soldiers. I thought this was a _rescue_.”

“They should be left where they are until Overlord is dealt with,” Thundercracker said, though he kept his vocalizer low. "We could just offer them fuel in the meantime until they learn to trust us." He’d tried to talk to Megatron about it, but his leader seemed fixated on Prime for obvious reasons. “But if we are going to _catch_ them instead of coax them out, then they may have to be restrained.”

Onslaught grunted agreement.

Long Haul just shrugged; confine them or not, grind them into a stew or not, he couldn’t care less. Unless it was Prowl. That was different, of course. It was a moot point anyway, and they all knew it.

Prime was already in protective custody. Good fragging luck getting him away from Megatron. They could hear their leader’s heavy engine humming with contentment while an overheated diesel engine complained feverishly in the background.

Megatron returned his attention to the conversation while missing theirs entirely. <I agree. This cannot be the sum of Overlord’s plans. We are missing an angle.>

<If that’s the case, then what is he actually up to?> Thundercracker’s wings flicked in frustration.

<That’s the million credit question.> Onslaught shook his helm. The device looked perfectly capable of mayhem to _him_ and Overlord was petting it like a favored pet. It was set up in a central location while a small mech crawled under it and fiddled with its under-hatches.

Megatron made that thoughtful noise again. <Keep me advised.>

Thundercracker heard Megatron leave the comm line, and he wasn’t satisfied. None of this smelled right. “If it’s not finished, why pull it out now?”

“I am _telling_ you, that thing’s just a distraction–” and then Long Haul hissed as a blast of sound exploded through his internal comms. It was so loud that everyone around him could hear it. Or rather, it was also echoing up through the Bailiwick and everyone could hear _that._

Hook was throwing a hissy fit of epic proportions, and now his problem was everyone's problem because he can’t find his key-logger. Someone’s _taken_ it. That means sticking his fingers way, way up into tight, sensitive spaces and watching Prime squirm and whimper during the hopefully tedious removal of sexual torture devices (“repairs for the patient”) would have to be _postponed_ until it was found, or a new one built.

Hook wasn’t telling Megatron. Someone else was telling Megatron that Prime (“new frag-toy”) wouldn’t be receiving medical attention (“not ready for play”) tonight. He made that last part clear at _Starscream-_ approved decibel levels.

All of the former Autobots bristled. “Hey,” Tracks yelled from across the Commons, “What does he mean, frag toy?”

“What the hell?” Thundercracker said and Onslaught bellowed in Hook’s general direction, “that’s not an acceptable description for our injured comrades!”

Long Haul snapped both through the comms and aloud so everyone could hear him dealing with his crass subordinate. "Inappropriate, Hook! If you don’t want to eat my fists for your fuel ration tonight then you better dial that slag back–”

–was not his _fault_. Can’t find _anything_ with Scavenger’s clutter everywhere – _CRASH!_ – and Mixmaster’s injudicious experiments – _SPLASH!_ – obstructing everything, his workspace smelled disgraceful – _TWHACK!_ – cannot _work_ under these conditions! Hooligans always moving his implements! Stealing his tools! Miserable thieves, when he gets his servos around them he’s going to–

“I’m going to go help him look for it,” Long Haul said with a groan and strode away towards the Bailiwick.

Thundercracker watched Long Haul’s bulky back plates recede, watching as the heavy hauler squared his shoulders as he prepared to deal with his enraged team mate. He felt only a little better that he wasn’t the only one with troublesome subordinates. Looking at Onslaught, he said what they were all thinking, “Whatever is going down, it’s happening _soon_.”

“We’ll keep an optic on Overlord, either way.” Onslaught agreed, and then stepped away.

Thundercracker stared after him until he disappeared down into the Bailiwick, and then he started walking the length of the adjacent Commons wall, audials straining. He moved along the full length of it, stopping every few paces to listen.

But now there was nothing.

The last thing he wanted to do was bring something up to Megatron and then be wrong. He was certain he was already on Megatron’s shit-list with all the pranks his mechs were pulling. It didn’t help that Skywarp was undermining his authority at every turn.

Finally, Thundercracker stepped back. Raising and dropping his wings, he turned and let it go. Maybe he did imagine the noise…

…

 …while across the courtyard, Underbite ground his beak, a bad habit beginning to resemble a nervous tic.

“You did not warn him,” one of his comrades whispered. “You did not warn your old leader what comes.”

Underbite looked down his beak at the flight-enabled Lithonian. He wasn’t a friend, no, not at all. Friends were inadvisable while in Overlord’s gang; too much torturous death for that. Trust was precious, never doled out on a whim, hence Underbite not investing too much into Megatron’s offer.

But this Lithonian was trustworthy enough for secrets.

“Naw,” Underbite admitted quietly. “This here’s the test. They fight this attack off, then _maybe_ they gotta chance of defeatin' our nutcase of a boss. Otherwise, I ain’t stickin’ my neck out for _losers_.”

The Lithonian winced. “No one will survive this, when all is done. Down here, there is only pain management.”

“You hold up your end an’ I’ll hold up mine,” Underbite reminded him. The Lithonian nodded. Their agreement was still in place. If one was to be butchered before the other, death would be delivered early by the far more merciful hands of a near-friend.

Better than beneath the servos of Overlord.

***

 

Onslaught arrived to their shared cell-room first. Preparing for the team meeting, he threw a few tactical scenarios together that might be helpful while pacing in distraction. He was deciding between defensive or offensive tactical formations for back up plans when fear jolted across the back of his mind. The feeling was from the gestalt bond, the sensory input distant but growing stronger.

Blast Off was upset… very upset. The rest of Onslaught’s team arrived moments later, pensive looks beneath their blast masks.

Brawl entered last, stepping across the cell room, and then rubbed at his helm. “You feelin’ that too?” Stronger sensation was coming through the gestalt bond then normal from their missing member.

“He’s freaked,” Swindle agreed, rubbing at his helm for what he felt from their missing team member. No pain, but something was wrong. Blast Off’s connection through their bond pulsed with fear. They all recoiled when his fear became horror.

They had all lived long lives. They had stood together through many frightening experiences and devastating injuries. They'd joined the Decepticon faction expecting battle damage, and they had done so as free mechs while fighting in a war they all profited from. They'd shared and shrugged off battle situations that would shell-shock lesser combat teams. But today was different. What was happening to their missing team mate was a horror on an entirely different level.

Vortex groaned for the primal feel of it. “I think this is it. We’ve tooled around here with our thumbs up our exhaust ports for too long and now he's _fragged_.”

“Hey now,” Swindle protested, “that's not a fair–”

“Oh yeah, sure, that’s the reason,” Brawl’s fingers clenched as if wrapped around something critical, like Vortex’s stupid neck. “’Cause we was just too busy _boozing it up_ here in this Primus-damned _paradise_ to go an’ rescue our buddy.”

Onslaught stomped a pede to break up his quarreling team. “Anyone know what the Constructicons did when Prowl was–”

“Shut him out,” Brawl spat out the answer. “They said they shut him out, all of ‘em. I won’t do it.”

The Combaticons jolted again as the gestalt bond began to surge. Whatever Blast Off was so frightened for was now happening. He was writhing in pain somewhere far away and everyone clutched at their helms in dismay.

“Son of a…they are ripping him apart. Holy _frag_.” Brawl kicked the wall in a hot fury, aching to do something about it. The thunderous blow echoed down the corridor and then he kicked it again.

Vortex focused on the distant sensations from their missing member. “Not apart. They aren’t killing him. They are cutting off his plates.” Of all them, Vortex had the highest tolerance for pain and vile situations. Not surprising, considering his secondary occupation as an interrogator.

But the others didn’t.

They grew further ignited as what was happening to Blast Off grew worse by the moment. They instinctively wanted to do something, anything, to help their team mate. They were too distant for his experiences to be painful, but they could sense the depth of his suffering. No matter how distant, the waves of sheer mortal terror were beyond unnerving.

Deep within them all a monster began to stir. It swirled out from their shared subconscious, growing stronger, surging upwards from their deepest selves for their shared state of alarm…

…Bruticus was waking.

Vortex hissed. His plating unlatched instinctively. Rotors twitching, his body ached to combine and _hurt_ whatever was hurting _them_.

Brawl hissed and stepped forward, already willing to succumb if only to do _something_.

“Shut down your side of the link. All of you,” Onslaught ordered. His harsh brass was a command, absolute and unmovable.

_Do it now._

His cold order echoed through their small cell and the other Combaticons stared at him in shock. The Constructicons could be expected to throw away their Autobot component. They were cold-sparked murders down to their struts, but the Combaticons were _brothers_.

And yet Onslaught held his ground, unwilling to risk losing control of his team.  He didn’t like the hazy, murderous stares of his team mates. They were growing more and more belligerent as Blast Off’s suffering only increased. Whatever was happening continued without pause, and they could feel when his shocked pain deepened into an unrelenting agony. His team looked at each other for a several long, noisy vents, dumbfounded for the order.

Then Swindle shrugged and immediately shut down his side of their gestalt bond. “Nothing we can do for him anyway,” he said as a deep tension drained from his frame.

Vortex tasted the sensations for another moment. With a flinch, he finally shut off his end of the bond as well. His systems grew calmer, but his spark pulsed in his chest, and an uncharacteristic shame nibbled at his mind.

“You are cutting him off?” Brawl hissed at them. He could feel Blast Off panic as one by one, his brothers blocked him out of their shared link. Brawl chewed on his lip plating and didn’t want to obey.

“Too far away,” and Swindle shrugged again with a resigned look at the tank-former. “Nothing we can do. No point in sticking it out if we can’t help, right?” But the words once uttered sounded so pathetic _._ Swindle dropped his helm even as he said them and Brawl’s optics flared. “What’ya _mean_ no point in–”

“Do it, Brawl.” Onslaught left their cell without another word. He seemed confident down to his struts that his team would obey, and Brawl _almost_ challenged his squad leader right there.

But Onslaught was the baddest son of a glitch that ever transformed, at least as far as his team were concerned. The sheer weight of his enormous ball bearings was not in question. He wasn’t soft like the Autobots or twitchy like some of the more immature combining teams. He didn’t do sympathy or any of that other stupid stuff that ends in -thy.

Onslaught ordered, and the Combaticons obeyed.

So when Onslaught threatened Brawl from across the bond, Brawl fell silent, considering his options. He mentally weighed the heft of said bearings. But for the depth of the respect he found there, he backed down. He closed his side with the utmost reluctance, seeing the cold Decepticon logic of it, though he couldn't help but rub at his chest plates for the sudden ache there.

 _Sorry buddy,_ and Brawl cringed as Blast Off grew completely hysterical; amid the worst day of his long life the other Combaticons were shutting him out.

Only Brawl’s physical discomfort ended when Blast Off’s presence faded, shame swiftly taking his comrade’s place. It crawled through Brawl’s circuit lines and he could tell the others felt the same.

“Slag is bad here too,” Vortex wasn't bothering to hide the guilt he was feeling, but he did try to argue with it. “No point in adding to it.”

Brawl stomped away, forced to look for a wall to punch in lieu of his squad leader.

 

***

 

In the corridors, Onslaught rubbed at his chest plates, walking in aimless circles. He could still feel Bruticus stirring within him as the merged components of their minds remained restless and angry. But the urge to combine was no longer overwhelming.

_The others couldn’t withstand this. Not for long...I cannot risk us combining and losing control. One hit to the energy shield during a berserk rage and we are all done for. Not even Bruticus can stand up to Overlord, not with his damned coating._

Finally he felt the others shut the shuttle-former out completely. Then he shut them all down from his side, his team's guilt and anger winking out of existence, fully blocked.

 _They will live,_ he comforted himself. It was necessary. And Onslaught didn't want them to sense what was coming; he had a reputation to maintain after all.

He walked until he found a quiet space, and leaned against the cave wall. Sliding down, he dropped until his aft hit the ground. There was rustling nearby, drifting down from a cell further down the row. Whispering voices and he could see purple, red, and blue wings flicking in agitation through the tiny gaps in the dreck welded to the cell walls. He put the flighty trouble makers out of his mind.

Hook too, for that matter. His grumbles for his missing tool were more subdued, but could still be heard down the narrow corridor.

Much harder to ignore was the sounds of brute force in the distance. Onslaught could hear Brawl at the far end of the Bailiwick, punching the cave wall with furious fists. Brawl wasn’t holding anything back. The sounds of his brutal hits reverberated through the cave, and no mech dared say a word to him for the disturbance.  

Steeling himself in the brief calm of mental silence, Onslaught gathered all his control and sucked in a long, deep vent.

Then he re-opened his link to Blast Off while simultaneously dropping all of his mental blocks and firewalls. An instant later he felt Blast Off surge towards him, all but mad with agony.

Blast Off clung to their two-way bond like he was dying, and Onslaught latched on tight, their minds entangling together as best as could be managed. Clutching at his now aching helm, Onslaught curled in a ball for the sheer anguish that buffeted him with such a stronger connection then he normally ever allowed.

But he didn't recoil from his subordinate.

Instead Onslaught served as an anchor in the madness. He sent waves of calm to the other as they suffered together.

 _Coming for you,_ Onslaught tried to send down the shared line, though he was unsure if his meaning made it through. Gestalt bonds weren’t true spark bonds. They were much dimmer.

 _As soon as I can, mech,_ _I’m coming,_ Onslaught swore as they endured together. _We_ _are all coming._ _Just_ _hold on._

In the distance, Brawl’s hits sounded on and on.

 

***

 

While they waited for Skywarp, Thrust watched as Ion Storm cleaned the battered carrying seeker with a wet rag.

Ion Storm and Thrust were both careful for the still-healing cuts covering the bare frame. The carrying seeker was missing all identifying features beyond the two latches on his back. Even with their intense scrutiny, they had no chance of recognizing Sideswipe, and were content to consider him one of their own. It made providing such care much easier for the often standoffish Vosian jets.

Thrust could tell their injured new comrade was starting to relax for the care being shown him. This was no assault and Sideswipe seemed to realize their kindly intentions. Still, they both kept a good hold on him, just in case.

“You smell that?” Thrust asked, sniffing at the air while Sideswipe watched them with curious optics and listened intently to their soft chatter. It was the same scent as from the last time he’d seen Sideswipe, back when the Air Commander had grabbed hold of him, and the scent remained exotic and compelling.

“Our new Air Commander wasn’t kidding about staying away from these mechs, you know that, right?” Thrust added, sucking in another deep vent. “I’m here because I don’t give a frag.”

Ion Storm nodded agreement while distracted by his task. “I’m not worried either. These mechs are going to need more support than just fuel and medical attention. I was going to talk Lord Megatron about volunteering as a surrogate guardian.”

Thrust considered that while watching Ion Storm scrub, leaving clean mesh in the wake of his soaking rag. “I doubt he’ll agree if you aren’t already active.”

Seeing Sideswipe catch sight of the bottles near him, Ion Storm watched as he peered at them, then further settled when he could tell at least one of them held medication. The maltreatment Sideswipe was expecting wasn't materializing, and he was well on his way to fully calming down.

Ion Storm tilted his helm for a moment. “Well, that’s an easy fix," and reaching out, he ran a finger around the apparatus and smeared the gathered fluid under his nasal sensor. "Hope this is enough to activate it.”

Thrust just shrugged. Who knew? Only the Quints.

Sideswipe stared at Ion Storm with a mystified expression, peeking down at his intimate port and squirming a little. _What was that for?_ Then he gave a little shrug and clicked at them. The noise was followed by little tugs of his arms, and it was clear he was asking them to release him.

Ion Storm hesitated, then nodded at Thrust. "Go ahead. Just be ready to grab him if he starts fighting again."

Sideswipe didn't, though. He just sat up and then snatched the rag from Ion Storm with a hint of a playful smile, and started in on himself.

Ion Storm grabbed another rag, soaked it, and returned to task. Sideswipe allowed it, appreciating the gentle washing. His temperature was dropping to sane levels, and Ion Storm continued to tend him, paying careful attention to his reactions. He spent more time bathing certain spots, using Sideswipe's fields as a guide for what he liked. Along the neck cables, down the front, and around the lower abdominals and belly, he could feel the other was fully enjoying his efforts. All manners of grime cleaned away, and clean silver metal began to glimmer in the light of their eye shine.

“I used to do this,” Ion Storm murmured, gaze distant with old memory-files, “for my Conjunx endura.”

Both Thrust and Sideswipe gave him curious looks for his soft tone. Thrust didn't know much about the Rainmakers, as Ion Storm's trine had spent most of the war at different posts. They had a reputation for ruthlessness and surprise attacks, and were most proficient in battle. But he didn't know any of them personally. Thrust leaned back, wings flicking inquisitively. “I didn’t know you had one.”

“I don’t anymore,” was the dark reply and Thrust said nothing more, not for _that_ tone. There were some forms of grief that linger, even after all this time. Some wounds never truly healed, and it was best not to dwell on them. Sideswipe tilted his helm curiously for the shift in mood, but Ion Storm smiled at him and shook his head, _no worries_. Ion Storm's kindly hands moved in soothing rhythms and then he started applying the cooling gel, much to Sideswipe's delight. He’d both sired and carried several bitlets before the Great War, and long experience had his fingers dancing over Sideswipe as he breathed in the alluring scent, growing ever more potent to his nasal sensors.

Thrust hesitated when Ion Storm offered him a rag, and then joined in. It wasn't long before Sideswipe relaxed completely under all the attention. He even allowed Ion Storm to smear stinging, precious anti-rust meds into his cuts without complaint.

Thrust peered through a break in the trash coating the cell wall. He frowned when he could make out a hunched form a few cells down, curled up in a ball against the far wall and shaking faintly. He could make out Combaticon green, but the shivering was unusual, that particular team was... _rough_. He shrugged, putting the other mech out of his processor while straining to catch a glimpse of purple wings. He couldn't see any hint of Skywarp down the cell row and he scowled as he worked over Sideswipe’s soft back mesh. "Where the _hell_ is–"

_Wharp!_

Skywarp appeared amidst them as if conjured. "Found it!" A scary-looking tool was in his servo and a wild grin filled his face plates. "Pray that Hook never finds out I am behind this."

Sideswipe startled for the sudden reappearance. Then he saw the odd tool in ‘Warp’s fingers. His optics flew wide, duel expressions of _good feelings gone_ and _what the frag is that_ flashing across his face and Ion Storm could feel the hot panic as it roared through Sideswipe’s fields.

Ion Storm could understand the concern; the tool did look alarming, but still dove for Sideswipe, wrestling him down onto his back with soft, apologetic murmurs. He could feel his own reaction to the fear of the other, a strange surge of possessive aggression towards his comrades that he violently shoved away.

"Hook would ruin your slag in the nastiest of ways," Thrust agreed while he grabbed the panicking Sideswipe. "He hates it when anybody touches his stuff."

“Hold him.” Skywarp handed the device to Ion Storm and then followed his own orders, grabbing a flailing arm. “Our new little buddy will figure out right quick what we are up to. Just ignore his freaking and let's get this _thing_ out of him.”

Ion Storm adjusted his fingers and applied the device to the apparatus while distressed clicks followed his movements. “I think I see how it works…”

One odd clicking sound later, and the apparatus whirred and disconnected itself. Sideswipe jolted as the miserable thing began retracting innumerable wires and invasive connectors across his internals, but the apparatus seemed to stall half-way through. Irritated, the rescuers went in after it.

“–careful!" Thrust grimaced at a slice in his thumb-joint, "Watch out for the prongs, they are stupid sharp.”

“Here, put your servos here and hold him open," Ion Storm said over Sideswipe's steadily louder protesting chirps, "and we’ll inch it out.” Sideswipe's optics flew open wide when fingers hooked around his sore valve, when his rim was stretched open to the point of aching. 

“You weren't kidding about the prongs," Skywarp hissed as he worked, drops of his internal fluid from his cut finger adding to the mess. "Who sat at a fragging desk and _designed_ this piece of slag?”

It took no small amount of effort to free Sideswipe, much to his initial dismay. Though as soon he realized what they were doing, he stopped fighting and held still. He watched with wide, hopeful optics, even amid his discomfort, and chirped and squirmed in sheer joy when the device finally fell out of him with a wet sound. He sucked in a deep vent, gasping in relief.

“Look at his _face!_ ” Thrust was grinning triumphantly, and play-punched Sideswipe on his shoulder in congratulations, completely forgetting to hold on to him. But Sideswipe didn’t put up any sort of fight, so Thrust let him be. Ion Storm followed suit, releasing his hold as Skywarp stared at the vile apparatus, still twitching grotesquely.

Curling over onto his side, Sideswipe shook with relief. He slid his fingers into his valve to check himself while Ion Storm beamed down at him and said, “Heh. I can _see_ how much better you feel.” Then Ion Storm patted the shivering Sideswipe on his back and reached for a clean rag. He blinked and tilted his helm to the side when he noticed Sideswipe was now squirming, recognizing that expression of sudden discomfort and embarrassment.

“Watch out,” Ion Storm pressed a dirty rag underneath Sideswipe’s squirming lower frame, then another over the top for a little privacy. “I think that _thing_ was partially blocking his waste tank nozzle.”

Skywarp jolted upright and blinked. “Wait, what, repeat?”

“Yep, there he goes,” Ion Storm grinned and Thrust stared. “Wow. Look at him go.”

In the distance, they could hear Hook yelling about a missing tool, and Thrust’s sudden grin went sharkticon-wide. “You better wait until he clears out before you return the key-logger.”

Skywarp nodded agreement, but he wasn’t listening anymore. His mischief-making senses were tingling. He grabbed the obscene device and turned it over. It smelled like stale lubricant and misery, and it was smooth and hollow on the inside, however sharp on the outside. The space seemed designed to accommodate a spike and a speculative look was creeping across his face when he said, “I wonder what happens if you put your spike in it.”

Thrust froze in place, suddenly nervous for the look in Skywarp’s optics. He was all too familiar with it.

“We should find out,” Skywarp decided. “For _science_.”

Ion Storm shook his helm. “You’re a monster, ‘Warp.” He waited until Sideswipe was finished emptying his waste tank - he recognized that look of sheer relief as well - and then began gently bathing the freed port. He felt a surge of protective desire and suspected the guardian coding was active.

_Alright then._

Sideswipe’s fingers were still inside himself, the first two cautiously traveling the depth of his valve. His movements spoke of deep relief, his touches along the inside not lusty, but more exploratory, feeling along his nodes. It was almost if he couldn’t believe the horror was really gone.

“Thrust,” Skywarp pointed at the apparatus with bright, gleaming eyes. “Put your spike in here.”

Thrust’s optics went wide. “Oh _hell_ no.”

“But I want to know what will _happen_ ,” Skywarp insisted, holding out the evil-looking device, face plates bright with mischievous glee.

Ion Storm rolled his optics while gently pulling Sideswipe’s fingers free so he could finish bathing his port. He could smell the carrying seeker's relief, could sense the steady return of comfort and it pleased him on a primal level. He controlled the urge to lean forward and lap at Sideswipe's soft metal and taste him, resisted the urge to bury his tongue as deep into that alluring little port as he could. It was an urge directly from the beast coding, and he knew that.

Skywarp stood up dramatically. “The command trine needs a mech with initiative, willing to take risks when the need arises. I _know_ someone is going to stick their spike in this device. The question is _who_ is going to prove themselves.”

Thrust’s optics narrowed in irritation for Skywarp’s blatant attempt to coerce him to do something so epically stupid that he was losing circuit connections just _thinking_ about it.

“Frag no,” Thrust insisted, wings flared and stiff.

Skywarp shrugged and slipped out into the hall. “Fine. _Whatever_. I can see you aren’t serious about promotions.”

Sideswipe peered up at Skywarp, taking in the apparatus clenched in Skywarp's servo, the panicked look on Thrust's face, and the mischievous slat of purple wings. Then Sideswipe's lip plating quirked. Now _his_ mischief-making senses were tingling as he recognized a fellow prankster, and Sideswipe watched Skywarp with keen interest.

Ion Storm opened a private line with Thrust. <He’s fragging with you! Break the cycle of stupidity!>

 _Clunk, clunk, clunk,_ Skywarp’s pede steps started to recede, helm held high, wings pinned back in furious, theatrical insult.

Thrust looked at Ion Storm like a petrol rabbit staring down a shrikebat. A soft whine escaped as he listened to Skywarp leave and he pointed at the deliriously happy carrying mech. “You, uh… you got this, right?”

< _Thrust!_ > Ion Storm hissed into their private line. <He’s asking you because he knows you are the only idiot here that’s _stupid enough_ to listen to him! >

But Thrust was already charging out the cell-room door to catch up with Skywarp. He’d been eyeing the Command trine for countless vorns, and he couldn’t let this go. He _was_ serious about promotions!

<Thrust!> Ion Storm hissed in sheer disbelief. <‘Don’t stick your spike in strange holes’ is the first thing your batcher teaches you!  I know you remember the old educational vid! All those nasty vid-stills, come _on!_ >

The private line went dead a moment later as Thrust yelled for Skywarp to wait up. Ion Storm just face-palmed with a groan.

Sideswipe sat up straight with a sudden grin. He poked Ion Storm in the chest plates - _listen_ \- and then pointed at his valve for – _that thing in there_ – and made an exaggerated motion of pulling something out and finger fragged his servo in mime – _connector in here_ – then pointed out the cell door after the two seekers – _is he seriously going to_ – ending with a wide and almost hopeful glint in his optics.

Ion Storm stared as he put all that together, and then slowly nodded his helm while pointing after Thrust  – _yes, yes he is_ – and then crossed his eyes in explanation – _fragging idiot with delusions of promotion_ – and ended with a rueful smile.

Sideswipe exploded into peals of laughter as Skywarp wasn’t the only prankster trapped in this dystopian hell.

Ion Storm’s optics went wide. “You _are_ in there. I can see you. Whatever they did to your helm, you’re still _you_ , aren’t you?”

Sideswipe smiled back at the mech who’d helped make his quality of life a thousand times better. Words couldn’t describe his relief and gratitude right now… not that he had any to try with.

“Alright then,” Ion Storm smiled, “You are looking so much better. I guess we should take you to see Command and get you settled into your new room. Everyone pitched in to set it up for your group.”

Sideswipe didn’t understand any of that. But he could tell by the way the mech was starting to get up that this pleasant interlude was drawing to a close, and he wasn’t ready for it to end. His lower body was humming for all the gentle touches, his valve free and clean and comfortable. He’d ached for such attention and kindness, and he liked absolutely everything about the seeker currently trying to help him to his pedes. Especially the scent wafting off him. He'd liked it before, and now it was much stronger.

“Come on,” Ion Storm encouraged him, trying to coax him to his pedes. “Don’t worry, everyone will help keep an optic out for you. You are safe here.” He didn’t mention the crazed cannibal killers, not that Sideswipe would have understood him anyway. But ignorance was most definitely bliss when it came to Overlord and his gang.

Sideswipe pulled in deep vents, listening to the cheerful voice while tasting the thick, delicious scent and then reached out and squeezed the arm supporting him. He hesitated then, remembering how...ugly...he was now, as compared to the handsome devil he used to be.

But he couldn't stay coy for long.

When he wanted something he went after it; such was his nature. And right now he wanted more attention from this mech. His gestation tank was low and he _needed_ more attention. Endlessly bothered by a simmering charge below, now that he felt safe, he wanted to do something about it. Hell, he’d already ridden one of these mechs to the moon and back… and so he gathered himself, sought out that thick layer of steel within, and pressed in close.

Ion Storm looked down in surprise for his abrupt change in mood. He could smell the need rolling off the other mech and would love to do something about it, but he was also feeling overly protective. "Don't know about that. Maybe you should get some rest first and not jump into any hasty-"

But Sideswipe was _all about_ hasty jumping.

 

* * *

 

< What do you _mean_ you can't locate your key-logger?  > Megatron growled in his comms.

He'd just contacted Hook to tell him there would be a delay. He wanted to cool Prime down before bringing him to the med-station for medical care. But now the irritable Constructicon surgeon was snarling in his audials about missing tools and thieves and poor working conditions and–

Even distracted as he was, Megatron still took a moment to nod greetings at Pipes as he passed. He didn't notice how the smaller mech’s face plates fell when he saw Prime’s hands were now bound behind his back.

“Sir,” Pipes call after him with a shaky voice, but Megatron just waved him off. “ _Not now_ , Pipes. Ask Onslaught if you need anything.”

< How soon will you have a replacement? > Megatron interrupted Hook's rant with harsh disapproval.

Tomorrow morning. Scavenger was already working on constructing a new one for him. Tomorrow for sure...unless he wanted the device removed surgically? If so he could start immediately, but the procedure would be invasive and they'd need some sort of restraining straps to hold Prime down for the surgical cuts he'd need to make to–

< That won't be necessary. > Megatron shut down that plan right quick. < We will wait for morning. > He cut the comm line with a growl, but there was nothing else he could do.

_Bah._

“Don’t be such a fragging sissy,” a familiar vocalizer sounded off in the distance. The conspiratory tones set him on edge, and not an astro-second later there was a strange snapping sound. He wasn’t surprised in the slightest to hear Thrust’s high-pitched yip.

Megatron sighed.

Not bothering to investigate, he picked up his pace instead; he didn't have time for all of this idiocy. Prime had stopped struggling during the walk through the tunnels. Now he was lying back, head lulling from side to side, too overheated to process. Prime needed attention and needed it _now_ , flighty trouble-making twits be damned.

Megatron tried to contact Onslaught, wanting Thrust’s problem dealt with hastily and with appropriate harshness, but he didn't respond, likely recharging. So he contacted Thundercracker instead, ordering him to deal with the disturbance. He decided to talk to Thundercracker again about reining in some of this silliness. Not that he held any real hope of sanity; even Starscream used to have trouble reining in some of the more persistent troublemakers.

Megatron kept moving, heading towards his quarters. Towards the tub of cool fluid he'd promised his exhausted counterpart, who was now lying quiet in his arms. Squeezing the lax helm against his chest, he further slid his fingers up and over the audials, to shield Prime from Thrust's disturbing noise.

“I have a tub full of fluid with your name on it,” Megatron promised his miserable counterpart again when he stirred a little.

A soft rustle of noise from one of the cells caught his attention. He glanced inside as he passed, but hesitated when he saw Ion Storm covering a smaller mech in a small hummock of rounded tarps. He couldn’t make out who it was, but there was no question what they were doing.

Most of his weight braced on his knees and forearms, Ion Storm’s helm was dipped low and he was worshipping the neck cables of the other mech, kissing a voracious trail up and along the chin line to claim the intakes, lower body moving in gentle, rolling thrusts, the smaller body hidden beneath but writhing, urging and demanding more, more, more…

Megatron swallowed and walked a little faster, "Busy night tonight, eh Prime?"

Prime didn’t respond. His helm slumped instead, intakes open but not ventilating. Hesitating for the look in Prime's optics the last time he'd offered, Megatron decided to press the issue anyway and covered Prime’s mouth with his own again.

The cool gusts triggered his ventilation systems, and Prime moaned and sucked in cooling air in great gasps. Megatron relaxed, letting his heat-exhausted mate breathe in his much cooler internal-air.

 

***

 

 _What should we do?_ Wheeljack asked Jazz. He and Perceptor were in the far corner of the ship, surrounded by some kind of mechanical construct in the first stages of construction. Their work was set aside for the disaster that had befallen them all.

The specter of starvation, resplendent with all its cruelty, loomed over them.

They were all frightened for the loss of Optimus’ stash of fuel. But far more devastating was the loss of Optimus himself; his comforting fields, his looming protection, his soft purring engine that frightened away the bad dreams… of which there would be plenty for the horrors they have all endured.

Jazz looked out towards the door, to the madness beyond. He made a slashing motion, pointed at the two scientists and at the ship, then at himself and outside. _You two stay here. I am going after ‘Sides and Prime._

Perceptor reached out and gripped his shoulder. _Be careful. Don’t want to lose you, too._

Jazz grinned. _O ye of little faith…_

Then the saboteur slipped out past the hollow entrance, keeping low and sticking to the cooler shadows.

In the distance, the Ammonites watched him vanish, heading towards the far wall. Only the two scientists remained inside, and the time felt right. They’d grab the mech the Constructicons wanted and then, with luck, the one called Hook would allow them to serve him. The Ammonites were fine with such a trade, so long as the transaction included fuel.

Emerging from the trash-heap hiding place, they started forward. But a rustle of movement startled them; a piece of metal trash falling from above. Shrinking back, the Ammonites peered upward to see Overlord’s gang was massing on the third level. The heat-weary barricade teams had failed to notice, but from their vintage point along the edge of the far prison wall, the Ammonites could look up and see many stealthly forms gathering. With a soft hiss, they realized the mad-mech’s gang was mobilizing for a massive attack.

The Ammonites cursed their rotten luck. Stirring up a hornet’s nest of Autobots seemed a bad plan if they were unable to immediately escape to the higher levels. Prudent judgment would have them fleeing in the opposite direction to wait out the coming storm. But their empty fuel tanks spurred them onward. If there was a fight to come, it would have to be now, while they still had some energy left.

And so down they went, down into the little space between hollow and cave, foraying into and shattering presumptions of safety.

 

***

 

The mess scattered before Megatron like fleeing turbo-mice as he arrived at the small cell-room he’d claimed for himself.

Rust and old oil stains covered every inch of the walls and trash crunched beneath his heavy pedes as he kicked open the cell-room’s crude door; nothing more than bars with metal strips welded here and there for some semblance of privacy.

In his arms, Prime was venting only a little better for the shared cooling breaths, and Megatron hesitated for a moment, giving the vulnerable frame another gentle squeeze. He was never more aware how dirty the entire penitentiary was as he finally set Prime on his pedes in their shared room and Prime sank up to his calves in dry scraps of trash.

Glancing around the humble space, Megatron frowned. _Hardly appropriate for a mech in Prime’s condition_ , he thought. He was struck for a moment at just how much their fortunes had changed, that this pitiful room was all he had to offer his counterpart and their unborn. There was little inside that marked the space as his own beyond the mostly clean berth, a few scavenged weapons; a crude sword and a tiny powerless blaster he’d found out in the corridor.

Alas, there was little he could do about the state of their surroundings. Forced to make do with what he had, he returned his attention to the task at hand. Keeping a firm hold on Prime, he reached back to shut the cell door. He couldn’t lock it, but the lock still _looked_ functional. Even if pressed, it would take a bit of time to lift the latches, and he didn’t intend to leave Prime’s side tonight.

Prime was starting to wake and began squirming a little, but the soft cloth bindings were making things difficult for him.

Megatron noticed and immediately removed them, holding Prime snug against his front while releasing his hands as promised. The cool tub was standing to the side, also ready as promised. Peering at him while struggling to focus, Prime looked like he was going to protest, but grew distracted by the messy berth-nest in the corner. He tilted his helm with a soft click and seemed to want to lurch toward it, but Megatron’s grip remained firm.

"Don't worry about that," Megatron lifted his free servo in a placating gesture. He'd forgotten he left the berth a complete mess. No matter, he'd deal with it later. Instead he coaxed Prime toward the pool of fluid with encouraging tones. But Prime had difficulty catching his balance, and Megatron just hefted him back up a moment later. Sliding him into the cool fluid, Megatron was gratified for the soft gasp of pleasure that escaped the other mech.

Prime’s relief was evident on his face plates and in the relaxing lines of his body as he sank into the cooler fluid. Blinking up at Megatron, he worked his intakes as if he wanted to speak, but then swallowed and his helm tilted back and he shuttered his optics instead.

“See?” Megatron assured him with no small amount of vindication, “Not such a dreadful fate, is it?”

 _Hopefully he will remember this when I take him to the med-station tomorrow,_ Megatron thought. A little faith would be nice, but perhaps unlikely. If Prime was more on the nervous, sensitive side right now, the sight of the Constructicon’s work station was _definitely_ going to set him off.

Prime couldn’t respond and didn’t bother to try. He did open his optics, his gaze once again drawn towards the messy berth against the wall. He squinted at it, and Megatron interpreted Prime's complex expression as dismay.

Very sensitive, apparently.

Some carrier mechs did develop idiosyncrasies during carrying stages, he’d heard. _Blindfold for certain then,_ and Megatron reached for and soaked a rag. He was eager to lay his servos back on the other, the guardian coding pushing, always pushing at his mind.

 

***

 

_Let me go._

Sideswipe remained relaxed, but insistent. He kept pointing at himself, and then pointed down the hall towards the secret tunnel.

Ion Storm winced. “We have a room for–” but he cut himself off, remembering the mech didn’t understand words. Any communication between them came from his hands, his optics, and the sound of his voice, only. Alright then, and Ion Storm hummed a soothing note to explain his intentions. Then he pointed at himself, pointed at Sideswipe, and pressed his two pointing fingers to mime the idea of _together_.

_You can stay with me._

But Sideswipe only pointed again, insistent. He pointed at himself, pointed at his finger, wiggled his fingers for _there are more than me_ , and pointed toward the fingers and back at himself again _they need me_ and then pointed insistently towards the secret tunnel.

_Let me go._

Ion Storm sighed as he kind of got the drift, and shrugged. “Your choice, but promise me one thing. Seekers take care of our own, even the idiots. We have _a lot_ of those. If you need any help, you come and ask for me, alright?”

Then Ion Storm face-palmed yet again as Sideswipe cocked his helm in confusion. “No words, right, right,” but he couldn’t help but smile when the other laughed at him, such a pleasant sound.

Ion Storm started again, pointing toward the cave and nodding, _will release you_ , but then pointed upwards and mimed wincing for the sunlight. _Too hot right now._ He made a gesture for _rest, then go._

Sideswipe cocked his helm, understanding the basic concept and smiled. He settled back to catch some rest, but the gentle moment was interrupted when, in the distance, Thrust’s whimpers grew ever louder.

Ion Storm groaned and looked down at the carrier mech nestled in his lap. “It's official; I am surrounded by idiots. Present company excluded, of course.”

Skywarp’s vocalizer broke into his HUD a moment later. <Hey, our _glorious_ Air Commander's wings are in a twist. You mind bringing Bare-Aft-Wings so I can hand him over?>

Ion Storm scowled. <I am pretty sure that is _not his name_ , and _no way_. He wants to go back down with his friends. >

No way in the pit was he handing this one over to anyone, especially after he just promised to release him. It would destroy the fragile bond he'd forged. In his lap, Sideswipe was enjoying the fingers stroking along his lower frame and their intertwined fields, and looked up at Ion Storm with heavy-lidded curiosity. Ion Storm tapped at his helm to suggest his HUD, but decided to speak aloud so his companion wouldn’t think he was being ignored.

Skywarp grumbled back over their comm line. <Whatever, my aft’s on _fire_ over here– >

Ion Storm’s harsh retort suggested he wasn’t feeling too sympathetic. <Yeah, well, you really earned a beat down this time. You're just lucky Starscream is gone. He would have curb stomped your stupid face for slagging up Thrust like that.>

< _Hey!_ Too soon!>

<This mech is one of us. If he wants to go, he can go. Take the ding, sissy-wings.>

Sideswipe clicked in amusement for Ion Storm’s exasperated-rhyme tone. He could pick out a verbal smackdown a mile away, and was enjoying the noise. He was half curled, comfortable, and drowsy-looking.

“Don’t worry,” Ion Storm mouthed at him. He knew the mech couldn’t understand him but he didn't care. “Nobody is tying you down while I’m around.”

Skywarp sputtered over the line. <Yeah, sure, but TC already knows about–>

<Whatever. I don’t care. Just tell the Air Commander we already let him go. It’s true enough, I’m going to sneak him down myself when it’s cooler outside.>

Skywarp’s vocalizer dropped as he admitted defeat. <Fine, _whatever_. >

Ion Storm blinked.

It was odd, hearing that tone from Skywarp. He had only ever heard it directed at Starscream when ‘Screamer made a decision ‘Warp didn’t agree with, but didn’t dare disobey. And now he could really hear Thrust in the background, and further out, it sounded like someone was beating the hell out of one of the walls. He knew the feeling. Some of his brothers were too damned stupid for their own good…

In his lap, Sideswipe drifted off to recharge.

 

***

 

“Get it off! Get it off!” ... Thrust was having one hell of a bad day.

Unfortunately for him, Hook was also having a bad day, though his was starting to look up all the sudden. “ _How curious_. My particular tool goes missing and now you show up with a particular device on your–"

Thrust panicked, but even _he_ knew better than admitting to naughtiness while sitting vulnerable on Hook’s questionable, trash-filled operating theater. "I found it in the Junkion's trash pile!"

"–far more _mistrusting_ mech might make some _unsavory_ assumptions. Alas for you, I don’t have my key logger, so–”

Long Haul cut Hook's new opportunity to rant off at the root; he wasn’t willing to tolerate any further shenanigans. Not from _his_ team, anyway. “Just cut the stupid thing off him, Hook. This isn’t processor surgery. And hurry up; we need to prep for Prime after. Megatron is waiting.”

“Incorrect,” Hook scowled for the rude interruption. “I already advised him about the missing key-logger and that Scavenger is creating a new one.”

Scavenger called out confirmation while already hard at work fashioning a new one. “He asked me to hurry, but I told him it takes a while, tomorrow morning at the earliest. He doesn’t want Prime to undergo any kind of surgery, said it would be too stressful.”

“Fortunate timing,” Hook said as he reached for a diabolical-looking bladed tool, “as cleaning up this idiot’s spike is going to take a while." 

“Wait, wait!” Thrust said, “You mean if you had the key-logger, then this would be faster–”

Skywarp popped his helm in the door. “Didn’t you hear him, bolt-brain? Key-logger's lost.” He gave the wilting Thrust a warning flick of his wings, disguised as concern, and then disappeared back out the door. “Too bad about that. Seriously.”

Hook watched him leave with a suspicious glower. More often then not Skywarp was behind much of the shenaniganry in their tiny slice of hell, and it all added up to a neat little equation (1 prankster + 1 missing tool - 1 application of common sense = 1 act of utter tomfoolery). If Hook wasn't so busy, he'd have followed up on his suspicions with vehemence. Fortunately for Skywarp, Thrust's delightful squirming was far too distracting, and Hook returned his attention to his cowering patient.

“Very well then. Since I appear to have _nothing better to do_ then nursemaid after _mouth-breathers_ , let’s have a look,” and Hook reached for the Quint tech currently clinging to Thrust’s spike like a space barnacle clenched around a tasty morsel.

The device _was_ designed to have a connector plugged into it, but only the non-feeling, standard-issue pod connective tubes. Unable to properly attach, the device's continuous attempts to re-adjust was causing most of the issue. Heavy graspers clamped down harshly while sharp fasteners rasped the length of Thrust’s spike, mindlessly searching for contact points that weren’t there, much to his intense discomfort. The apparatus looked diabolical, and no mech in his right mind would ever stick anything of value in there.

Hook grunted after a lengthy inspection, "Yes, I think the whole thing will have to be cut off," and Thrust near fainted.

"The _device_ ," Hook clarified while looked down his visor at Thrust as if deciding how severe the lobotomy needed to be – best take the whole thing to be safe – and then turned and yelled over his shoulder for Scavenger. “Drop that for now, I need you! We have an idiot here in need of a recap of the SPD!”

All but tripping over himself in eagerness, Scavenger hurried over with a huge grin. “Oh _damn_. That one’s my favorites. I love all the messy vid stills!”

Endlessly helpful, Scavenger pointed his fist at a clear-ish spot on the far wall (way less messy drawings of questionable things) and a grainy light projection appeared, a vid entitled ‘Spike Psych; a Dissertation on Common Inappropriate Applications’ by celebrated physician Blowback of Praxus.’

Thrust threw his helm back with a groan of disbelief. “I don’t believe this.”

Outside, Skywarp chortled behind his fist. He was finding the entire situation almost _painfully_ entertaining even as Thundercracker snarled at him for causing yet more trouble.

“Now, please direct your attention to the light projection while I work, and Scavenger will go over, step by step, the rules of gauging what constitutes an unacceptable hole and _don’t you worry_ , we will get to the bottom of your major malfunction.”

Thrust tilted his helm back and skyward as if beseeching the Afterspark for help. “ _Please,_ Primus."

“My name is not Primus,” Hook assured him while attacking the irritated Quint device with a crude cutting implement. “But feel free to refer to me as such. Now, _concentrate_. Do you remember what Dr. Blowback was most famous for?”

Thrust buried his face in his hands, a tiny “no” escaping his vocalizer. His spike was on a runaway train to eunuch-ville, and he was trying not to cry.

Hook finished the last slice then wrapped his fingers around the apparatus and _yanked_.

 

***

 

Skywarp’s wings were flicking all innocent-like while Thundercracker’s wings held at a furious cant. Overall, Skywarp was looking less than contrite while Thrust whimpered in the background.

Thundercracker switched to wing speak. ‘ _What happened to Thrust? And don’t tell me he was just messing around. This has your designation scribbled all over it.’_

Behind them, Thrust shrieked _._

“–not sticking his tender bits in suspicious-looking alien torture devices, _that’s what_ , you processor-addled, sorry excuse for a Cessna!”

Skywarp flicked his wings in affronted protest. ‘ _Ask Thrust. I have no idea. I was just passing by and_ –’

 _‘I already did,’_ Thundercracker’s lip plating twisting in accusation, _“and he wouldn’t say anything.’_

Skywarp grinned, wings flaring in triumph. _‘Then why are you asking me?’_

Thundercracker was beyond frustrated. Hell, at this point even Starscream would be laying into his snide, unrepentant underling, no matter his designation. Anyone other than Skywarp and Thundercracker would be more than willing to do Starscream proud. But the mech smirking at him was his last living brother. None of his Armada dared question his authority at this point; all but the one mech he thought would have stood by him. It seemed like Skywarp was stabbing him in the back every single time an opportunity arose.

But instead of the beat-down they both knew Skywarp deserved, Thundercracker merely responded with angry words. _‘If Thrust won’t admit to anything there’s nothing I can do, but he told me about the carrying mech. Where is he?’_

Skywarp could tell TC was beyond irritated with him. Well, he was irritated too. _‘We cleaned him up and let him go.’_

_‘You what?!’_

***

 

Much further down the corridor, Ion Storm was still sequestered in the far cell with Sideswipe. Peering through a break in the privacy coverings, he was struggling to read his Air Commander’s wings in the distance. His own wings were twitching nervously and he was mentally preparing to go out and defend himself lest he be thrown under the bus by Skywarp.

However he was worried for punishment, Ion Storm remained completely unrepentant of his actions. Soft little drowsing sounds drifted up to his audials from the mech nestled in his lap, and the sheer amounts of distress they'd spared Sideswipe by handling the situation themselves was well worth it.

In a cell not too far away, he could hear Pipes complaining to Snarl about Megatron, harping on and on about how their leader had tied Prime’s servos.

Further vindication, then.

Ion Storm struggled to eavesdrop, preparing himself for whatever punishment might be coming. But from the sound of things, there was a deeper issue as Skywarp didn’t even mention him.

 _‘We let him go because he asked us to,’_ Skywarp flicked, wings twitching with anger. _‘They aren’t so gone as we thought. And yes, I borrowed the key-logger. I will give it back tonight when Hook is recharging. Thrust is fine with it.’_

Ion Storm couldn’t see the Air Commander’s response from his angle, but his wings were harsh, and yet Skywarp seemed unworried.

 _‘Because you didn’t need to know,’_ Skywarp’s wings flicked back. _‘This was seeker business. And no, you won’t be telling Megatron about the carrying mech or the key-logger. ‘Cause if you did, then he’d know you fragged up again and still can’t control your mechs.’_

Ion Storm’s optics went wide. If he’d run his wings with such disrespect, he’d be pummeled into the next vorn.

 _‘He’s one of us,’_ Skywarp’s wings flicked again. ‘ _He’s one of **us** and I made a decision to let him go. Punish me or whatever, but I’m not sorry.’ _

Ion Storm relaxed when the conversation ended after a few more harsh flicks and Skywarp strode away unscathed. The favoritism struck Ion Storm as wildly unfair, but relatively normal as life was so often biased and one-sided in the Decepticon ranks.

Skywarp saluted Thundercracker flippantly as he left, and when he passed Ion Storm he offered his fellow seeker a wide grin and a wink.

Still in his lap, Sideswipe drowsed on, gestation tank much fuller and EM fields reflecting how much more comfortable he was feeling. Settling back, Ion Storm wrapped his arms around the sleeping mech and relaxed. He’d try again to convince him to remain when he awoke, but if not, then he’d see him back to the lower grates as promised.

 _Building bonds will work far better than using restraints,_ and Ion Storm frowned while glancing out through the slats towards Megatron’s cell-room.

 

***

“They’ve tied him up!”

Pipes paced back and forth, servos wringing as he felt responsible. “I saw Megatron walk by and Prime was tied!”

Snarl sniffed, far less worried for Prime then for how upset Pipes was. “I don't think he is in any real danger, and he _was_ punching Megs pretty hard.”

“Yeah, but–”

“Punchin’ mechs is rude.”

Pipes blinked. “Well, obviously. But I thought you _liked_ punching people.”

“Sure do.” Snarl leaned back in satisfaction. It was good when lovers understood each other so well. “But punching mechs is _still_ rude.” Then he blinked and tapped at his helm, optics focusing on a blinking symbol in his HUD. “Weird…”

“What’s wrong?” Pipes frowned when he saw Snarl sniff a little – just the barest little bit – and he was clearly upset with whatever he was seeing.

Snarl sniffed again. “Sludge’s proximity alarm.”

“Huh?”

Snarl’s optics grew unfocused. “Sludge is kinda…well he is a little slow sometimes. Not stupid! Just... slow about things. He’s always getting lost, ‘cause he can’t remember where our hab-suite is, or the grid number. So I had him install a prox-alert so I could go find him if he...” and Snarl trailed off, feeling overwhelmed with longing and worry for his enslaved brothers. “It just went off. Malfunctioning, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” Pipes pressed closer. “When we get out of here, I will help you rescue them. We will get everyone back and make the Quints pay for what they've done.”

“Damn straight.” Snarl shook off the melancholy and grinned down at Pipes. “Let’s go ask pretty mech what he thinks about Prime. We get enough mechs together and maybe we can convince Megs to put Prime in the communal room instead.”

Pipes was delighted with the idea. So much so that he burst into Sunstreaker’s cell-room without knocking, and promptly regretted it. He skidded to a stop when he realized he was intruding... Sunstreaker was on his back, looking satiated and Breakdown was lying across his chest plates, snoozing. They were still intimately entangled, evidence of recent activities still slick on their frames.

Sunstreaker startled awake, squinted at the intruder, and fell back with a grumble. “First the Junkions and now you too? It’s too damned hot and I want to get some recharge, so frag off.”

“It’s Prime–”

“You mean the mech that killed my brother? Now you can _really_ frag off.”

“But he didn’t–”

“Get. Lost.”

“Come on,” Snarl said as he guided Pipes away. “We’ll just go check on Prime, make sure he’s okay. Megs won’t mind that, right?”

Pipes followed after him glumly.

A short walk later and they peeked into Megatron’s cell-room. They could hear the rustle and creak of his armor and see flickers of his biolighting. From his movements they could tell he was seated just inside the door. Pipes was just about to announce them, but Snarl clamped a servo over his shoulder to quiet him as Megatron was murmuring, and they strained to hear his quiet rumbles.

"-yes, I know you aren't happy with your accommodations. I'm not happy either-"

Pipes and Snarl hesitated, and then Snarl jabbed a thick finger at a wider spot between the dingy slats. They both stared with slack intakes at the scene that was unfolding, and Snarl glanced down at Pipes with a _told you so_ look on his face.

Prime was clicking sleepily up at Megatron, blasting him with steady streams of  ' _not happy not happy not happy'_ noises while resting on his back in a tub of (relatively) cool fluid. Other then his belly, only his face, knees and hands remained above the waterline. His hands shifted nervously as he grasped at the rim, seeming unsure of his situation, though not from lack of effort on Megatron's part.

"This is the best way I have to cool you down,” Megatron was explaining while ignoring the complaints entirely.

Megatron took the time to explain everything he was doing and why. He returned all of Prime's complaints with soft words, his voice a calm rumble in counterpoint to all the unhappy clicking. His back was to the cell-door, and so he failed to notice his audience.

He knelt even further over the makeshift tub (Scavenger had made it for him) and little splashes drifted over to eavesdropping audials as Megatron bathed Prime's frame with a soaking rag. Murmuring reassurances, Megatron took his time washing over Prime's belly, to his counterpart's nervousness.

Snarl poked at Pipes, flicking his optics over his shoulder to suggest leaving, but Pipes just swallowed and kept watching.

Meanwhile, Prime kept pulling his knees in defensively, trying to shield his belly. It was obvious that he was feeling vulnerable, what without a stitch of his plating left to him, but the soft rag left only comfort and pleasure in it's wake.

Switching to soft _shhhing_ noises, Megatron continued his efforts without the slightest hint of threat. Prime was trying hard to remain upset, but every time a stroke went long his tone changed from concern to ... _oh that feels so good_ … then went right back to concern again.

Prime's optics strained upwards as parts of the dark frame hovering above him kept shifting in and out of focus. He couldn't make out his captor's face and it frustrated him. He directed his irritated clicks up at random parts of the big blur leaning over him. Then said dark blur set the rag aside for a moment and reached for him with both servos and Prime shifted nervously, trying to shrink away as thick fingers palpated along his mesh.

The dark hands pursued him, though. His wriggling was for naught as one dark servo dedicated itself to stroking him, while the other slipped down to feel his deeper cables; Megatron was trying to gauge his dropping temperature. 

Nothing about the experience looked painful or unduly frightening, especially with all the calming noises. For the gawkers, hearing _that_ voice make all _those_ sounds was truly surreal.

Prime, too, had trouble settling down, but his clicks finally quieted to soft chuffs and the occasional sighing huff. He rested his helm back against the rim of the tub, exhausted. No unpleasantness followed his unofficial surrender and he fully quieted after that. The dark blur above him remained calm and gentle, and he couldn't help but be reminded of the indistinct form that wandered his dreams. He even began to enjoy the cool fluid swirling around him.

There was a gust of cooler air from Megatron, and it felt good.

He breathed in the heavy scent filling the air; musk and pleasure and satisfaction. He settled further as he was feeling far better, forgetting for a time that he should be protesting and the reasons why.

Then the cooling rag was back, soothing along his neck cables, and he closed his optics as it stroked over his face, carefully washing away the grime and he found himself fully enjoying those touches, everything coalescing into a relaxing state of comfort.

Another blast of cooler air, and Prime hesitantly reached out a servo and pulled at Megatron’s helm. The other obliged him, their intakes sealed, and Prime spent several long moments sucking in hungry pulls of cooler air as Megatron’s heavy engine rumbled encouragement.

“Come on,” Snarl mumbled to Pipes, his tugs insistent. “Let’s leave him to it. I think he’s got things under control here.”

 

***

 

Thundercracker was scowling in frustration, staring with distant optics after his closest friend and the biggest pain in his aft at the moment.

It was well past mid-day but there were still many joors left to the daytime ‘sleeping’ cycle. Across from him, the Constructicons were starting to bed down for some recharge, all but Hook, who was still tending to Thrust.

Thundercracker also remained outside the medi-station, far past the point he should be recharging. He considered leaving, but Thrust kept straining to see him, reassured by the presence of his Air Commander, and TC chose to linger for his benefit.

Optics distant, he lost himself in his writing and only resurfaced when Thrust made the occasional hiccup of distress. But when a scene where Skylander Warptastic was getting pummeled while awaiting rescue turned into a grisly three chapter beat down, it finally dawned on him that he had to _do_ something about Skywarp.

“Hey,” Long Haul hesitated, turning towards Thundercracker while preparing to leave, “Can I say something, something I probably shouldn’t, that’s none of my damned business?”

Thundercracker answered with a wary “...yes?”

“It’s just … I’ve been where you're standing and I just wanted to say … for some mechs, they need to know where the line is. You have to lay it out for them or they will never be satisfied.” Thundercracker snorted, but Long Haul only stepped forward in earnest and leaned in close. “And that line, it has to be the same for _everybody_.”

Then Long Haul jolted as Mixmaster tore by them, running full tilt towards the secret tunnel, soft little gasps and whines escaping his vocalizer. “Mix?” Long Haul called after him, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He started to jog after Mixmaster, looking concerned.

Long Haul disappeared down the corridor after his team mate, leaving Thundercracker staring after him with drooping wings and a bleak expression.

 

***

 

Optimus caught sight of the messy berth again as Megatron helped lift him out of the cooling tub.

His attention was instinctively drawn to it, and he wanted it. The configuration was comforting, though he couldn’t understand why. He was exhausted … his sleep interrupted by the frantic search for Sideswipe meant that his subsequent struggles and capture had wiped out his meager remnants of strength. Still recovering from Quintesson captivity, he couldn’t withstand so much stress and worry. Now that he was comfortable, he was struggling to stay awake, even as worried as he was for his missing Autobot.

Hopefully Jazz was having better luck…

Settled down onto the ground, Optimus rumbled a low _humph_ while coaxed to recline back on a clean tarp laid over the ground. He tried again to gesture and click, but incomprehensible glyphs were the only response to his attempts to communicate. Then the heavy blur that was Megatron sat down next to him with a floor-rattling _thump_ and began to towel him off.

Careful and thorough, Megatron toweled under his neck and down his back, but he ranged too far south and Optimus pushed at him with a soft huff. He was further comforted when the other backed off. Watching Megatron acknowledge and respect his wishes -in that way at least- helped him relax, although the thick hand didn’t fully withdraw, instead cupping under his chin.

Capturing his neck between two fingers, Megatron began wiping at his face and around his intakes and optics and Optimus huffed again. He curled over onto his side and grabbed at the rag with soft clicks of _give me that_ … _I can do this myself…really now_ and Megatron let him.

But after a moment of lack-luster effort, Megatron sub-spaced another rag, insistent on helping while cheerily ignoring his protests, though they were growing far milder as there was still no threat materializing from the large dark form.

Sounds of a tin opening caught his attention and Optimus blinked and then struggled to sit up. That strong scent was still wafting from Megatron and a heavy arm slid around his middle and pulled him closer. Following that were servos that began coating his body with the cooling gel. He recognized the slick feel of it, and the glorious wave of cold that followed and he fell back and relaxed.

Optimus’ optics drooped as the full body rub continued, pleasing fingers coating him with gel. He had almost drifted off into recharge when sounds of someone battering the far wall jolted him back online. The noise echoed down the walkway as he blinked, disturbed, and tried to sit up. But Megatron pressed him back down with more soothing noise and then reluctantly rose to his pedes. Megatron left for a moment, closing the cell-room door to check on the aggressive disruption.

Optimus sat up and looked around, slowly dragging himself to his pedes, and headed towards the door. If he could just get back to the main grates he could slip through and make it back to the others. When he tested the door, however, he found it was locked. The locking mechanism seemed formidable and he wasn’t in a state to challenge it.

The cell-room was small and he sagged a little when he realized he was trapped. At least for now.

Discouraged, Optimus tottered towards the messy berth to sit down, his legs shaky for his deep fatigue. He sat down and tried to make some sort of plan, couldn’t, and then settled back when sitting upright became too much of a task. Sagging down into the nest, he couldn’t help but relax into the soft mess, succumbing to his deep exhaustion mere kliks later.

 

***

 

Megatron returned not long after.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Megatron still looked concerned for whatever he’d been dealing with, though the wall-beatings continued unabated. A moment of alarm struck when the tarp was empty and Prime seemed missing. It passed when he spotted his counterpart already nestled into the messy berth, his vents now slow and steady and comfortable.

Prime was clearly exhausted for the previous day’s events, and Megatron sighed in full agreement. He was tired himself. He reached out and rubbed along the other's back strut, stroking along the sleeping body. Soft engine rumbles followed the movements of his hand. Prime's mind may be frightened, but his metal at least was coming around.

_A few more days of this and he will calm down. Now that he is safe, I will need to focus on getting the rest of them out from under the grating._

Megatron hesitated, debating with himself, but finally slid into the nest with him, pulling him close and listening to his relaxed vents. Nothing would happen unless Prime wished it, and Prime was too tired and comfortable to worry about such things. Already fully accustomed to sleeping in groups, he thought little of it anyway, even curling a little closer, however unconsciously.

It wasn't long until Megatron followed Prime into recharge.

...then a soft huff followed by an intense wave of arousal surged him back to wakefulness. "Prime?" he mumbled sleepily, feeling the other at his back. He must have rolled over in his recharge, and now Prime was spooning him. More than that, from the feel of things. Another pulse of arousal, and he could feel Prime against his back, belly pressed snug and a familiar softness rubbing against him ... Prime was shivering and rubbing his lower body against the jut of his aft.

Megatron heard Prime inhale his scent again. Hesitating, he wondered if this counted as an invitation, then remembered with disappointment that nothing useful was going to happen until Hook and Scavenger could remove the miserable device holding Prime's valve hostage. Even now he could feel the faint _scripe-scrape_ of the apparatus, and Prime's sudden gasp of pain for the sharp jab.

 _Much more of that and he will wake,_ Megatron realized.

Prime needed to rest, but showed no signs of stopping his movements and suddenly Megatron wasn't sure if he even wanted him to. _One of us might as well be satisfied tonight..._

A low needy moan echoed his thought as Prime pushed his array back against Megatron, his face and aching array burying themselves into Megatron's back plates and aft.

_Very well then._

Rolling over, Megatron coaxed Prime onto his other side so he was back to spooning his captive. Slicking his fingers with the pre-fluid dripping from his own aching panel, he reached around the smaller frame and offered them in the place of his aft. He stroked over the bare array, careful to caress around the apparatus.

Another soft moan and Prime arched and curled, trying to press harder against the pleasing fingers. Reaching down, he sleepily grasped the servo stroking him and his hips and thighs curled around, trying to push them inside his clenching, needy valve.

Sliding his free hand under Prime, Megatron captured the interfering servos and tucked them close. "Calm yourself," he murmured, and returned his other hand to the captive array, thumb petting the pulsing anterior node while his fingers slipped in and under the outer folds. He didn't dare venture any further for the device, but the slick strokes were enough for a gentle overload.

Especially when he touched one shallow node and his thumb rubbed small circles around Prime's anterior node. Prime arched and his valve clenched and Prime shivered against him with a gasp, releasing the excess charge. A wash of lubricant trickled out around the miserable apparatus, slicking everything below and Prime's sleep-muffled moan of momentary relief - as brief as his own had been - was still music to his audials.

"First thing in the morning," Megatron promised Prime in a soft whisper, "I will see you entirely freed of your misery, and then we will return to this moment." His body was still humming though, and his panel was leaking unacceptably, threatening to soak their bedding.

The lubricant on his fingers was awash with pheromones, exotic spice to his nasal sensors. The scent was encouraging his array to stay primed and ready for service. He realized he was well past the point he could just wait for his own charge to abate. Leaving Prime to his dreams, he climbed to his pedes and moved away. Kneeling in the opposite corner, he took care of the problem with a few swift strokes of his hand.

Pulse after pulse, he emptied out, the intense throb easing as the bright pink of his transfluid splattered down and away, wasted.

Returning to their berth-nest, he resettled around Prime in the hopes of catching a little more recharge. There was a good chance Prime might wake him again, but he was unwilling to sleep elsewhere. This was where he wanted to be.He wrapped both arms back around Prime, feeling movement under his splayed fingers, under the soft mesh of Prime's belly and the other nestled into him in his sleep.

Megatron had nearly fallen back into recharge when Onslaught’s vocalizer blared to life in his internal HUD. < Lord Megatron! > 

Megatron frowned sleepily. <How many times must I tell you not to call me–>

<Overlord’s gang is hitting the lower barricades hard! My team and I are heading down to assist.> Onslaught interrupted him without apology. He had no patience for niceties and for far more reason then was obvious by listening to him snarl over the comm line.

<I’m on my way.> Megatron carefully disentangled himself from Prime and got to his pedes. He could hear the still furious Brawl cheering in the background, keen on a fight.

Outside, Pipes frantic vocalizer could be heard shouting something indistinct from the Commons. It broke the peace of the early evening, even as mechs were beginning to stir down the cell-rooms.

A roar from outside filtered down to Megatron, along with an incredulous voice bellowing outrage. “Junkions! What is this?! The signal is given! We have an agreement!”

 _Overlord is beginning his assault,_ Megatron realized as he glowered towards the direction of the Commons. _He will be most disappointed._

Wreck-Gar had already warned Megatron of this, assuring him the Junkions had no intentions of betraying their hosts. From the way his nervous co-leader had emphasized that point over and over, Megatron suspected this had not always been their intention.

_Something to deal with later…_

Megatron straightened and with one last stroke down Prime's drowsy back, he stepped back and away from the berth-nest. Leaving Prime to his rest, he initiated a comm line to the rest of Command as he heard Wreck-Gar shout his expected defiance.

 

***

 

“Junkions!”

One of Overlord’s gang roared out, “The signal is given! We have an agreement!”

“Agreement?” Pipes hissed as he grabbed a crude sword and Snarl called for him to hurry. Pipes stared out past the energy shield to see a large assortment of Overlord's gang members amassed right outside the shield.

Snarl growled and stomped forward as Pipes stared. “What are they on about?”

“There is no agreement!” Wreck-Gar’s shout echoed across the Commons, but one of the junk-piles near the shield generator clearly disagreed. Long, spindly fingers reached out and pulled the glowing module out of the housing.

An instant later the energy shield sputtered and died.

Pipes gasped out a soft denial even as Overlord's gang rushed the crude barricades, which was all that stood between the rival groups now. Vaulting over them, the alien fighters spilled into the Commons with all the charm of vicious, swarming insects.

 

***

 

Megatron stiffened as the comm line connected to an uproar.

The line was incomprehensible as everyone was shouting over each other ... something about the _energy shield? It’s down?!_ and Megatron whirled to charge towards the Commons when a heavy, groaning rumble-roar sounded from deeper down the cave. A rolling cloud of dust blasted past with a _whoosh,_ the dust swirling in mix of cool and hot air.

_What in the name of–?_

A howl of alarm sounded from deeper down in the cave, "They've collapsed the wall! They are already inside!" 

Megatron reached for the cell-room door and then froze, his spark lurching when a familiar face appeared like a ghost-wraith from the darkness.

“Mind if I come in?” Overlord asked from behind the cell-door, his crocodile smile a mile wide.

 


	14. Pandemonium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Overlord makes his move and chaos reigns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :) 
> 
> Train wreck as promised...!

**15 Minutes Ago:**

Leaving the safety of the hollow far behind, Jazz crept forward with slow, measured steps. Moving as a shadow slipping amongst shadows, he hesitated at the entrance of the secret tunnel, peering into the dark depths. It was little more than a well hidden, rough hole in the wall, winding upwards towards some unknown place.

He knew he was hardly fit or equipped for a daring rescue, but damn him if he wasn’t going to try. He steeled himself, squeezing the little blade between shivering fingers. Then he started creeping up the winding passage.

He hesitated again when he heard distant sounds through the rock...a grinding sound, as if someone was operating a heavy drill somewhere. He cocked his helm and listened, tense and nervous.

His condition was far less obvious as his lower body was only beginning to show signs of swelling, but the carrier-coding still urged him to flee. Growing used to the near-constant state of fear he was forced to live with, he pressed onward. His companions were unlikely to save themselves.

They _needed_ him.

Slim blade now steady between lithe fingers, Jazz was halfway up the passage when he heard heavy pede steps heading towards him. Voices echoed on approach, and he counted two mechs, coming in fast. One was gasping with eerie-sounding whines while the other was giving chase while calling out in concern.

Sinking down, Jazz curled into an awkward ball as he covered himself with slag. Staying motionless, he held his vents as he waited. There was no light beyond optic-shine in this dark passage. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice him.

Sure enough, the heavy pedes tore past him without pause, the second hulk even leaping over his trash-covered form. After a moment Jazz climbed back to his pedes and continued his way up the passage, leaving the hulking mechs behind him. Creeping forward, he stuck to the deepest shadows until rock gave way to grating and Jazz stepped from the passageway, pede steps perfectly silent as he slipped into the Bailiwick.

Prime and ‘Sides were here somewhere, lost in this morass of flickering lights and looming dark.

Jazz wasn’t leaving without them.

…

 

"Mix? You okay?"

Long Haul called out after his team mate, frustrated when Mix didn't slow or answer. He chased after the retreating mech, his massive pedes kicking through the trash drifts. Darting along the passageway for the Bailiwick’s cell-rooms, he could see Mix’s back plates appear and disappear within flashes of light.

Mix's bright green plating caught and reflected the errant biolight glimmers from sleeping bodies as he ran through the darkness, his frame further highlighted by the lights of peering optics, mechs stirring, irritated for the disruption so deep in the sleep cycle. Then Mix plunged into the deeper darkness of the secret tunnel, heading down to the lower levels.

Leaping over a largish, awkward mess of junk on the ground, Long Haul struggled to catch up to his excited team mate. He rounded the corner and dashed onto the grate of the lowest level. Stumbling to a halt, he gasped in shock when he caught sight of what Mix was so worked up over.

Ahead of him, Mixmaster crashed to his knees, his metal scraping sparks as he skidded and then plunged his servo through the grating.  Grinning with wild abandon, he helped the Ammonites coax Prowl through the slats.

"We've got him!"  Long Haul called out over the Constructicon’s private comm lines and they didn't need to ask which _him_ he was referring to. Charging forward, he added his servos and his own wild grin to the rescue even as his HUD exploded with simultaneous inquiries from Scavenger and Hook.

<– _is he okay, does he require immediate medical attention, is he torqued off, also inquire if he wants to keep the pre-natal spark, dibs on the first turn to 'apologize' if he's torqued, make sure to mention that medical experience would be useful for all forms of guardian-interfacing, hey I already called dibs, because properly filling an active gestation tank requires more than the unskilled rutting on offer by **some mechs** , what do you mean by that_–>

The overlapping blather was irritating and Long Haul snapped, "Shut up and get down here, both of you, and hurry!"

Murmuring his own bit of nonsense words, Mix's optics grew unfocused, expression bright, fingers curling possessively around precious metal. His lip plating moved, no sound but the words were there...

… _Have you! I have you!_ _See? Didn’t I promise I was coming for you? Aren’t you happy, happy with me?_

Prowl sucked in a deep in-vent in his sleep, lip plating curling. He remained calm even through the rough handling. Almost as if aware they were rescuing him, he relaxed and his parts loosened in compliance as they pushed and pulled at him. For the first time since the Quintesson had cut him, a tiny smile touched the side of his lip plating. Then Prowl squirmed when the Ammonites tugged particularly hard on one of his parts.

Mixmaster responded instantly, shoving the Ammonites away, “Don’t touch him! He hates being touched!” The Ammonites fell back, startled for the aggression, even as Prowl made it through the grate and into the arms of his new team.

With a series of rattles and clatters, the Ammonites broke into their smaller forms. Grabbing hold of the slats, the little mechs worked their way through the grating just as Hook and Scavenger arrived. Hook stepped forward, pushing past Scavenger, watching curiously as the Ammonites reformed into a little gestalt. Even combined, they were only tall enough to reach Hook's hip strut. He smiled faintly when they stepped toward him expectantly.

So… trusting.

"You promised me fuel," The Ammonites reminded Hook, pointing towards Prowl, the job completed as required. They had decided to wait before mentioning the gathering storm above, not wanting to delay their payment of fuel.

"Of course," Hook agreed as he dropped to one knee before the alien gestalt. Across from him, the other Constructicons flashed knowing smirks at each other. The shared glee was less than reassuring, and no fools, the Ammonites stepped back immediately.

Not fast enough.

Hook lashed out and grabbed hold of them, his grip brutal. The rattle of their disengaging clamps revealed their intention to disassemble, but Hook hurled them into Mixmaster’s drum aperture almost before they could separate.

Only one Ammonite broke free fast enough, the head component, and the tiny mech dropped out of sight through the bars with a protesting cry.

Mixmaster initiated an internal cleaning cycle with a mean-spirited grin. Around him, the Constructicons laughed noisily, until Long Haul hushed them. He didn't want to draw any attention from above while they fussed over their returned head component.

Scrabbling sounds continued for a time as many tiny fingers scratched at the insides of Mix's drum. Finally after a harsh, grinding sound, the little mechs inside fell silent. Mixmaster continued to giggle long after they ceased tickling him with their futile struggles.

“I don’t have to tell anyone important, right?” Mix looked hopeful. “We can just eat them ourselves–”

“He’s fragged,” Hook interrupted, unplugging himself from Prowl’s medical port. Hesitant, he tested his side of the bond, opening himself to Prowl. But he jerked his helm and shut the gestalt link right back down for the disturbing mental disarray that greeted him.

_No change there._

“They’ve damaged him, removed a component from his processor. I can repair the damage to his mind, but the parts I need aren’t available here…” but then Hook’s vocalizer trailed off and his helm tilted in contemplation. His optics lit up with sudden hope. “Mixmaster, wait. I need one of the Ammonite’s heads.”

Fishing around in his mixer barrel, Mixmaster tore one off and handed it over with a cheerful look. Hook snatched it with a grimace of distaste while Mix licked his fingers clean of internal fluid. Then Mix startled when Scavenger lunged forward and snatched up a tiny body out of his open drum and started chewing on it.

Hook mumbled to himself as he poked at the components inside the tiny helm. Distracted by his task, he started pulling up schematics while simultaneously checking Prowl’s helm welds for signs of rust infections.

Mix frowned at Scavenger over the noisy chewing, “Supposed to be sharing fuel, remember?” Then he reached down and pointedly offered his dripping fingers to Prowl, but Hook shoved him away with a “not now you _imbecile_ , can’t you see I’m working–”

“You can fix him, right?” Mixmaster asked Hook while ignoring the warning. Every other sentence out of Hook's vocalizer was either a threat or an insult these days, and he was getting a lot of practice tuning Hook out. Mix rubbed at his helm as if he was in pain, but he was grinning like a mad mech at Prowl.

Scavenger stepped forward with a sudden frown. His heavy pedes clunked when they crossed the tunnel’s threshold and onto the grate. Peering up through the slats, he seemed to see something he didn't like in the slightest. “Hey guys…”

Hook’s optics flitted over the data feeds from the medical port, “Quiet while I am concentrating!”

 **“Guys!”** Scavenger pointed upwards.

At the harsh tone the other Constructicons finally looked up. A seething mass of gang members greeted their optics, heading down towards the barricades with purpose. The grating above rattled from the pede-falls of so many mechs on approach, and little bits of trash rained down from the higher levels through the slats, like the fall of dirty snow.

Tracks was in command of the current barricade team, and standing at the forefront of his nervous mechs, he hesitated as the long expected pushback seemed to be underway. "It's finally happening," he muttered, and his team started backing away. This storm front was well beyond their ability to fight. Backing away with the rest, Tracks’ little winglets twitched in alarm, and he opened an emergency comm with Onslaught.

Hook grumbled, “Bad timing for this,” and was deeply offended for the interruption. Lifting Prowl off the grating, he started tromping back up the tunnel towards safety.

“Too many,” Long Haul heard Tracks report to Onslaught.

Above them, a massive explosion rolled through the Bailiwick, and the entire team startled. The surrounding rock shuddered, and Hook re-appeared a moment later. “Something is happening topside! The Bailiwick is being overrun!” Hook said as he reappeared. “Should we retreat up the tunnel anyway? It is a _mess_ up there, and if so then I need someone to take point to protect Prowl.”

Long Haul strained his optics, trying to see what the commotion above was, but there was too much refuse in the way. One thing was clear; whatever was happening, the Constructicons were the only team standing between the oncoming gang members and Overlord’s three way pincer stratagem that would see the Cybertronians besieged from all sides.

“Lots of them coming.” Scavenger's fingers curled with savage glee as anticipation coiled tight within them all. No matter what they chose to do, they were in for a hella good fight.

Long Haul stomped forward as the first of the barricades dropped, far too fast and with little fanfare. Did they have the keys, or some sort of master key for the shackles? It wouldn't surprise him. Overlord had been in control here for some time. He watched with displeasure as the barricade team abandoned the gate without a pause. They fled and regrouped to the momentary safety of the lowest barrier.

"Stop retreating and hold this level," Long Haul roared at them, "There's no longer anywhere to retreat _to!_ "

Mixmaster straightened with a hot grin. "Killing time!"

"Scavenger," Long Haul said as he joined the barricade defense team, "I want you to get that tunnel collapsed, in case we can’t hold them off." His snap decision made the barricade team flinch; he'd just signed them up for what sounded like a suicide mission.

Scavenger glanced over his shoulder with a frown. His helm swiveled back as he looked up at the churning mass of vicious, alien cannibal killers heading their way. Why did _he_ always get the crap jobs while everyone else got to break things? Speaking of breaking things… _hmm_. He turned towards Hook with hopeful optics, “Now that we have Prowl back, you think we could combine?”

Long Haul scowled at Scavenger and then at the tunnel pointedly.

“Devastator could just punch the tunnel and collapse it much faster,” Scavenger pointed out hastily. He wasn’t arguing with his team leader, hell no! Just offering suggestions for greater efficiency!

After all, this encounter would be _so_ much more entertaining if Devastator could join the party, even if combining while Prowl was mentally unbalanced would be profoundly uncomfortable. The others perked up for the question. They were willing to suffer for a while for the chance to combine, not to mention that Devastator might make all the difference here.

Hook considered their new team mate’s frame. His lips quirked as he mentally went over what combining would require for such a damaged part of themselves. "There _is_ a chance I can get Prowl stable enough to combine with us as his connections are still functional enough for it," Hook called back in offer. In his arms, Prowl shivered, odd, heavy latches and the lighter ones between his shoulders lifting in excitement.

"He’s far too exposed to combine!” Long Haul argued with another terse scowl, "His connections might still work, but without plating all it would take is one hit and he’d be terminated. And Scavenger, for the last time, I gave you an order–"

"But," Scavenger interrupted while waving his servo pleadingly, "What if we were careful? Remember they don’t have blasters, right?"

They all longed for Devastator. It had been far too long and they had taken so much slag lately… “Slag them all,” Scavenger hissed, feeling how close he was to convincing his brothers. “Let’s stomp right through these fume-huffing fraggers. Right up the stairwells and take this fight to fraggin Overlord.”

Time to hit back…

“It would be most… satisfying,” Hook offered while injecting Prowl with something from his private stash, an adrenal stim to dull pain, with a warning glare at the others not to mention he had some squirreled away. Megatron might be…offended. Then Hook considered the direction the conversation was heading, and then he reached out and injected Scavenger, and then emptied the rest of the hypo-needle into his own line. It would help them endure Prowl’s mental state when they combined. Then he broke open another and looked up at Long Haul expectantly.

Meanwhile, Mixmaster closed his optics. His mouth moved, almost if he was explaining something, and then his optics flew open and he grinned.

 _"He_ says yes."

The other Constructicons still didn’t need to ask who _he_ was, but they all stopped and stared at Mixmaster. Taking in his feverish expression, they all understood it for the confirmation it was; Mix had left his bond open with their injured component. It was impressive, and very uncharacteristic. Prowl’s mental upheaval was painful to endure and Mix wasn’t known for any sort of high pain tolerance.

Even more impressive was how much pain Mix must have endured, to be able to actually communicate with their head component. Long Haul had some idea that Mix was connecting with Prowl here and there, but not to this extent. They glanced at each other, suddenly worried for what that might mean for future interactions with Prowl... worried for a teetering balance of power suddenly uplifted.

But the decision was made. Long Haul grinned and clapped Mix on his shoulder while Hook injected them both. “Time to break stuff,” Long Haul rumbled and Mix’s grin only grew wider.

Oh how they loved to break things…

…

 

_Hmmph?_

The heavy boom from deeper down in the cave roused Breakdown and Sunstreaker from their sleep. Arms still wrapped around his frag-buddy, Breakdown could feel when Sunstreaker awoke, his opaque fields beginning to fill with emotions of irritation and exasperation for his disturbed recharge.

Breakdown slid one optic open halfway with a groan. Not bothering to lift his helm from Sunstreaker's too-comfortable chest plate, he mumbled instead, "What was that?" _…and can we ignore it?_ He didn’t want to move yet. So comfortable... _five more minutes?_

"Don't know," Sunstreaker grumbled.

He shoved at the other Lambo to get off him. Breakdown reluctantly flopped to the side as Sunstreaker sat up. They both activated their internal comms at the same time, and both hesitated for the shock of noise. They were further alarmed when Vortex shouted, "They've collapsed the wall! They’re already inside!"

The two front-liners blinked at each other.

Realization dawned.

Their sleepy-comfort-haze was replaced by horrifying clarity and both exploded into action, disentangling from each other with harsh curses. Bolting out of their shared room, they emerged into chaos.

Thundercracker was shouting orders, “Anyone that can, head toward the breach! If we regain control of the choke point, we can hold them off long enough to get the shield back. Otherwise it’s over!”

All the Cybertronians still inside the Bailiwick pounded past, rushing towards the breech in hopes of stemming the vile tide. Breakdown and Sunstreaker joined them, charging out to meet Overlord’s mechs head on.

Meanwhile Onslaught was directing the Combaticons from his HUD, fighting his way towards the break in the Bailiwick’s wall. He spotted the two front-liners a moment later.

“You two! The Junkions just dropped the shield and we have incoming! The Commons is being overrun! Get back there and hold the cave entrance!” Onslaught pointed back the other direction as he thundered past. Then he smashed into the first of the invaders with a gleeful Brawl at his back.

Shrieks of excitement and pain and rage filled that part of the cave, mechs darting here and there, some Cybertronian, some Junkion, and yet too many were the random forms of alien attackers. The clank and clash of bladed weapons echoed down the tunnel as the Combaticons made their stand.

Sunstreaker and Breakdown turned back as ordered, heading towards the Bailiwick entrance for the fight of their lives. They glanced at each other for an instant – _this is going to be intense_ – and both took silent measure of the other with shared sentiments of _do I really trust you to defend my back?_

Holding the other's gaze, Sunstreaker’s answer came in the form of a harsh grin – _yes_ – mirrored by Breakdown, and they smashed fists and charged out into the fray.

…

 

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” Overlord grinned.

Peering through the cell door, his face was eerily backlit by his own red eye-shine. Megatron’s biolighting caught on Overlord's harsh metal, reflecting the light back. Yellow iris circles glowed, Overlord's feverish optics filled with a lusty hunger, holding eye contact and devouring the sight of the other.

Megatron ignored the question and forced himself not to look over at his drowsing counterpart. He didn't want to draw any attention to Prime. Instead, he approached Overlord at a slow, menacing lumber. But distracting Overlord was a doomed venture, as without the Achilles virus, very little escaped his notice.

Drinking in Megatron’s presence, Overlord stood back while mentally counting out his rival’s weaknesses and vulnerabilities, the most blatant one the carrying mech drowsing in the curious mess of a berth. Overlord watched Megatron approach. Saw him wince as Prime stirred in his sleep, the truck-former’s soft, contented engine rumbles evidence of his deep comfort.

Overlord shook his helm in amazement for what he read in Megatron’s aggressive posture, the protective way he was shielding Prime from view. It was madness; a complete turnaround from the endless ages of conflict between the two leaders.

“…this is so unlike you.”

Overlord tore the cell door off its hinges with a _screeeeel_ of rusted metal and threw it to the side.

Megatron scowled for the false concern that filled Overlord’s vocalizer as he stood triumphant in the doorway. Beyond Overlord's hulking frame, he could hear the sounds of frantic battle, could see flashes of clashing bodies.

“So pathetic,” Overlord held out a servo in a supplication that didn’t match the gleam in his optics. “What happened to you?”

“The Quintesson happened to us all,” Megatron answered.

It was very much the truth, though his only aim with this conversation was to keep Overlord focused on him. He frowned as Prime stirred again. He was entirely unafraid for himself. He'd spent far too much of his life facing down powerful threats, and although he could be accused (tried and convicted!) of over-confidence, there was no small amount of sheer ability to back his attitude.

But Prime was a different matter, and the guardian code could be counted as a weakness, in his estimation. He was fearless, but the coding was further ramping up his natural aggression for the battle to come. While he remained cautiously optimistic, even after his last defeat, he kept a tight grip on the violent impulses beginning to surge within him.

Mindless thrashing was worse than useless against this foe.

“Oh, this is _rich_.” Overlord was not distracted in the slightest and glanced over at the berth-nest and its sleeping occupant. “What a joke you have become. No wonder I handed you defeat with such ease. You really have gone soft.”

Megatron snorted at that. He couldn’t care less for this deserter’s opinion of him. Not to mention that Overlord was hardly in a mental state to offer such judgments. Even the Quintesson hadn’t wanted anything to do with this mech.

“So typical of you to mistake mere injury for weakness. One of your many failings. So tell me, Overlord, what of you? Why are you still here?"

_Keep him talking, keep him focused on me…_

Megatron closed the distance between them in a show of bravado, “Surely you could survive a swift flight to the stratosphere to lay claim to the prison ship and escape? But instead you linger, stewing in this vile hovel of a kingdom–”

"I appreciate your unrealistically high opinion of my abilities," Overlord grinned as they stood face to face. "But you know as well as I that my outer plating wouldn't withstand such primal forces. And frankly, I have yet to have my fill of this place. So many little toys to play with, and now even _you_ have turned up. At this rate, I may never leave."

“It is foolish to remain here. We are sitting ducks for the Quintesson; they know we are trapped for the moment, and they will stop at nothing to reclaim us. Defeating them and freeing Cybertron must be our priority now.”

Megatron wasn't actually paying much attention to the argument; he knew he wasn’t going to be talking his way out of this. Instead he was taking careful appraisal of the other. He'd underestimated this mech, and he wasn't going to make that mistake again.

_He is as low on energy as I am, but seems there is no lasting damage from our last bout. Too focused on my frame to pay full attention to the coming fight, but the coating will make up for that._

_This will be one hell of a fight._

“Further proof of how far you have fallen,” Overlord tried to goad him into doing something rash. “The Megatron I knew would never cower under threat from mere alien filth.” He licked his lips as he spoke, optics flashing bright with anticipation. His fingers curled, as if imagining they were already wrapped around the object of his desire. He was beyond excited for the coming fight.

More so for the aftermath, as he remained so certain of his own victory

 _“Cower?”_ Megatron snorted in contempt. “Your audials must be mis-calibrated. I merely _strategize_ against dedicated enemies with greater numbers than our own forces. Don’t forget, the Quintesson are responsible for your exile here, Overlord. They defeated _you_ as well and as such, are worthy foes.”

Overlord was growing bored with the conversation, uninterested in any course of action that didn’t end in Megatron trussed up in the harness he’d set up in his chambers. He tried to loom, but Megatron refused to give ground and set his pedes instead. _So tired of your posturing and madness… tired of this wretched place. This far…and no further._

And so Overlord leaned in, face plates mere microns away from his old leader and now enemy, soon to be slave and _then_ screaming frag toy. He couldn’t help the little tremor down his back strut, so delighted by the proximity, nearly overwhelmed with anticipation for the soon-realization of a long held dream.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Overlord murmured, “All of this…so much more then you could ever imagine. I am going to take my time and you are going to dance to my tune. When I am finished, there will be nothing left of you that doesn’t belong to _me_.”

Outside, the noise was building. Shouts, clashing weapons, and shuffling pedes filled the air inside the cave. From further out in the Commons, Megatron could make out Pipe's frantic, indistinct cries of warning.

Behind him, Prime settled in his sleep, jarring the device in his valve, and a soft whine of discomfort escaped him.

Overlord’s grin widened for the noise and he glanced over at the sleeping mech. His lips curled, he turned his attention back to Megatron, just in time to focus on the heavy fist that exploded in his face plates.

“I warned you I would tear you apart for disobeying me,” Megatron announced grandly as Overlord stumbled back for the hit, catching his footing within less than a klik. “Today I make good on that threat.”

Droplets of internal fluid tickled his upper lip, and Overlord wiped at his mouth in delighted surprise. First blood to Megatron, and Overlord realized with a hot rush of joy that he had an actual fight on his hands.

“Promises, promises,” Overlord smirked and then surged right back. His cooling fans were already at full-tilt for his intense arousal as they smashed into each other.

…

 

Long Haul turned back, ignoring Track's frantic protests as the barricade team began to fail.

The barricade finally dropped under the assault and the gang members overwhelmed the barricade team, momentarily distracted, even as the Constructicons stepped forward. Behind them, Hook joined his brothers, a malicious smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

The Constructicons all circled around Prowl. As one they opened their link to him, and his disorder roared into their minds in a painful rush, thankfully dulled for the stim. They still recoiled for the discomfort – all but Mixmaster – and they could still feel his hate for them. But the hopelessness was far diminished, and they could feel something new within Prowl and their link.

Centered on Mix, it felt like acceptance... of a sort.

Almost trust.

It formed the baseline for their connection as they all surged toward him, physically and mentally. It weaved around them and made the merge bearable, even for Prowl's mental malaise.

With a shudder they combined into Devastator, minds first recoiling and then finally clenching around Prowl’s. But when the neural uplink solidified they faltered; Prowl’s processor crashed for the strain to his damaged components. Then his unique battle computer -utilizing Hook’s knowledge of internal processing- re-routed around the damage, using the Constructicons combined neural net as a base of operations, reset, rerouted, reset, rerouted, reset again, and this time when Devastator came back online, they were functional.

The last of the barricade defenders had fallen, and the gang member that finished off Tracks began severing his helm as a grisly trophy (and snack for later). Draining internal fluid rained between the slats to the ground of the under-grate below, droplets combining forlornly in an ever-widening puddle.

Devastator opened his optics, his massive visor flickering and then glowing solidly, his helm tilting towards the irritating alien gnats below.

Peering at the now hesitating aliens, Devastator was most amused to see some of the enemy already in retreat, already stumbling back for fear of the massive hulk now regarding them with a macabre grin.

The alien mech that had sawed off Track’s helm dropped it, optics wide, and an instant later Prowl recognized the fallen mech.

Rage filled them for the desecration, the emotion surging solely from Prowl’s spark, but embraced by them all as a personal affront. How _dare_ –

Devastator roared.

…

 

Ion Storm coughed as thick dust boiled up from the collapsed wall, billowing over the gaps in the cell-room’s bars. He gathered a stirring Sideswipe, hefting him up with ease as the dust started to clear and the reason for the upheaval grew clear.

 _They must have drilled holes into the wall and detonated charges to drop it…_ and now murderous shapes were moving across the rubble, pouring into the Bailiwick by the dozens. Only the slowly receding clouds of soot covered Ion Storm’s presence.

“Combaticons! To me!” Onslaught shouted orders both aloud and through internal comms as he charged past Ion Storm, intent on engaging the enemy.

Brawl's laugh rang out behind, “Already here!”

Ion Storm ducked to the side as the Combaticons passed and re-adjusted the injured mech to lie across his back as fighting exploded across the cave.

Arms wrapped snuggly around the blue seeker’s neck, the delicate carrier mech shifted, restless, excited for the sound of battle. “Of course you were a warrior,” Ion Storm murmured softly as he moved with the dust.

Warrior spirit or not, the carrier-mech wouldn’t last long in this mess. “Come on,” Ion Storm whispered more to himself then Sideswipe as he broke into a trot. “We are going to get you and Prime out of here. The Air Commander was right. We should have left you down beneath the under-grate until it was safe.”

“–will be nothing left of you that doesn’t belong to _me_ –”

Drowned out by the sounds of fighting, Overlord’s pleasant voice was faint, but Ion Storm recognized it instantly and froze in dismay. He'd only ever heard Overlord speak a few times over the course of his long life… but that voice was unforgettable.

Ion Storm called warning over the internal comms, <Overlord is already inside!>

Megatron’s rich voice interrupted him, and Ion Storm was never more relieved to follow orders to stay clear of the fight. His most memorable encounter with Overlord had been during the aftermath of one of the worst battles of the Great War; the Simanzi Massacre. War was hell, but so often it was what came _after_ the hectic battles that defined ugly reality.

Overlord had dealt with large numbers of Autobot POWS personally, and that was the day Ion Storm first questioned his allegiance to the Decepticons. The day his faith in his faction faltered. The day he found himself questioning what “peace through tyranny” actually meant for the future. But with the newly created Decepticon Justice Division having already begun hunting down deserters and traitors – hard at work building their vile reputation for ghastly executions – it had been too late to back out. As he greatly valued his life, he'd had little choice but to ride the maelstrom he’d bound himself to.

Ion Storm heard Megatron respond to Overlord’s goading with something indistinct, and then heard them clash. He could see flashes of their frames through gaps in the cell-room walls as they battered each other.

He ducked into the next cell down, trying to ferry his precious cargo to some semblance of safety. He recognized it as Sunstreaker’s room, and laid the carrying seeker out onto the bed, making a motion for _stay here_. Then he waited for one of the dark, alien shapes to come close enough and leapt forward. He attacked, only to draw the attention of several other dark shadows.

He finished off one, but was having trouble with the second alien when the carrying mech struck his attacker from behind. Using a piece of sharp piping to slice open a fuel line, Sideswipe ducked to the side, only barely avoiding a deadly retaliatory strike.

Ion Storm finished the alien off, spat internal fluid from his intakes, and then flashed ‘Sides a smile of gratitude even as he pushed him back into the cell room. "I said _stay here_."

Looking over his shoulder, Ion Storm could see Sunstreaker and Breakdown making a stand in the distance. The front-liners stood back to back. Hell-bent on holding the Bailiwick entrance, they were upholding the Cybertronian reputation for brutality, the dead-pile around them growing ever deeper.

Thanks to their efforts, no small numbers of gang members were kept at bay.

But Ion Storm hissed through his denta when he saw Breakdown step into a ray of light while whirling to tear some unfortunate's limb off. The wild movement sent a hot splay in an arc around him; Breakdown was leaking from a horrific slice to his neck cables. Every furious blow, every lashing kick had him losing internal fluid in gouts. He fell to his knees for a moment, but surged right back up again, engaging the next attacker. Glazed optics bright with battle-lust, he didn’t seem to feel his dreadful wound, so lost as he was to his berserker rage.

More and more alien mechs thundered towards the besieged front-liners, and now nowhere seemed safe for the carrying mech.

“Stay here and out of sight!” Ion Storm charged out to help the front-liners, immediately engaging the next group, his form lost to Sideswipe amid the thrashing of battle.

Sideswipe crept towards the cell-room bars, watching through a break in the privacy-trash and swift flashes of gold and black filled his sight. In the distance, Sunstreaker was butchering the _hell_ out of the gang members. His brutality was as vicious as it was effective; the gang members were starting to hesitate now. They wanted to back off and away from Sunstreaker and Breakdown, and 'Sides felt a wild surge of pride.

Then Sideswipe winced as he saw Breakdown collapse. A flash of light blue wings turned dark as Ion Storm immediately took Breakdown's place, frame front-lit by the brighter light of the Commons streaming in brilliant rays through the cave mouth. Suddenly 'Sides was sick of staying back, sick of not helping. He turned to look for something more stout then his piece of slag for a weapon when a hand clapped over his shoulder.

Sideswipe whirled, ready for a fight, only to look into Jazz’s grinning face plates. The saboteur’s little blade was slick with alien internal fluid and he waved at ‘Sides in greeting.

Sideswipe clicked in delight, and then flinched as he realized the risk Jazz took to come up after him. _Didn’t mean to stay up so long_ , he started to gesture but Jazz wasn’t interested in explanations or apologies, not here. _Prime_ was going to be dealing with this troublesome Lambo, not him.

 _You are an idiot,_ Jazz assured ‘Sides with a grin. Then he turned back towards the cell door, tugging on the Lambo to follow him. _This is nuts,_ Jazz scowled at the bedlam outside, _we have to get out of here. Now where the hell is Prime?!_

Down below, a very familiar voice bellowed rage, and a massive frame moved in the depths. It parted the milling gang members with ease, heading toward the stairway, Devastator struggling to force his massive bulk up the cramped space.

Both carrying mechs shuddered instinctively. They recognized Devastator’s war-howl from battles long past. But it was Sideswipe, peering downward, who first caught sight of the raging gestalt. His sharp optics focused on Constructicon green as he struggled to make out details, and then Devastator’s helm came into focus.

Sideswipe choked in shock, and hauled Jazz closer and pointed frantically.

_Isn’t that…Prowl?!_

…

 

Scuffed fists now wet with alien internal fluid, Brawl pummeled away at the endless targets offered with joyful abandon.

During his wall-beating tantrum, the other Cybertronians had all backed down in respect for his furious rage. Even Megatron had taken one look at him, hesitated, and then returned to his cell-room without comment. But Brawl’s mood was now far improved; applying his fists to living bodies instead of unfeeling walls did much to sooth him. Thus he embraced the madness with a relentless cheer, rather out of place for the reality of the situation.

A shriek of metal, the sounds of rotors shredding weaker steel (complete with life-affirming splatter) and Vortex’s gleeful cry announced the hele-former’s arrival. Now soaked with alien internal fluid, he jogged over to take position next to his squad leader.

Vortex’s amusement was short-lived as Ion Storm’s frantic warning broke over the confusion, <Overlord is already inside!>

<Leave Overlord to me> Megatron said through internal comms, sounding strained. <Do what you have to do to regain control of the cave!>

“You heard the mech,” Onslaught snarled, “Now get out there and maim these fraggers!” The Combaticons surged as a unit towards the next mass of mechs that poured through the breach.

“Hey! Aren’t you wastes of metal supposed to come in _one at a time_?!” Brawl laughed uproariously while taking damage from the three aliens working together to try and separate him from his brothers. Their efforts were coordinated, but Brawl was in his element, and the three aliens were hard-pressed to stay out of range of his dangerous servos. Ignoring the damage slowly building up over his frame, Brawl enjoyed himself immensely at their expense, smashing his fists right and left as worry and anxiety were left behind in the throes of a thrashing melee free-for-all.

“You have a _sword,_ Brawl!” Vortex yelled in exasperation as he kicked away his last opponent. His rotors fanned as he freed his own crude weapon from the body, bracing for the next attacker.

Meanwhile Onslaught was tangling with a six-armed Hexadar, each arm bedecked with heavy blades. He ducked a razor punch, parried a vicious thrust and in the space that opened, slashed back with his sword while yelling in his comms, <Swindle?! Where the hell are you? We could use Bruticus right about now!>

<Real busy out in the Commons right now! Barely holding off the riff raff!> Swindle’s vocalizer was almost drowned out by the sounds of battle, the war-hoots of the Junkions, and Snarl’s enraged roar.

There were far too many, and soon the three Combaticons were back to back, a heavy circle of death that, while effective, couldn’t fully block the new cave entrance anymore. Any gang members not wanting to engage the Combaticons rushed on past, searching the dark for softer targets.

<Somebody get that damned energy shield back up _now!_ > Onslaught roared over internal comms.

The Hexadar sensed his opponent’s dismay and redoubled his efforts as Onslaught and his team had no choice but to weather the storm.

…

A ruckus tore Optimus Prime from a deep recharge.

Jolting upright, his blurry optics scanned the small space of the cell-room, to see two blurs grappling in the darkness. The light from their optics and frames splintered into fast-moving flickers in the darkness, reflecting off pieces of shiny metal welded to the walls, dancing with their furious movements.

Megatron's low growl he recognized instantly. But it was Overlord's amused reply that fully alarmed him.

Megatron and _Overlord_  were battling mere frame-lengths away from him! Luck was on his side however; they didn’t seem to notice him, so intent on damaging each other.

Optimus’ pedes hit the floor with a soft _clunk_.  Struggling to catch his balance, he watched as the two dark forms scrapped in the doorway of the cell. The vicious fighting was only broken intermittently by their voices, spitting back and forth in a rapid fire exchange that could only be insults. He couldn't tell who was winning, but the self-assured noise from Overlord didn't fill him with confidence.

 _He murdered Bumblebee_.

For Optimus that rush of pain was not in the form of a thought. It came instead as a flash of memory-files flickering across his mind’s eye; ‘Bee’s smile, his cheery laughter, his life ending in a splay of internal fluid. Hot rage filled him, brightly burning, drowning out the coding’s fear pulses.

_Have to help somehow…_

He looked around the cell, searching for a weapon. His optics were less the helpful, focusing on random items, the bars, the ceiling, even the fresh splatters of internal fluid all over the floor… a mix from both combatants at war behind him.

Finding little to suit, Optimus rumbled in frustration, until his optics finally caught on a mess of dark shapes lying in a pile in the corner. If there was anything of use in this little room, it would be there. Limping towards the mess, the clunking and grunting and colliding and vicious strikes behind him spurred him onward.

He tottered forward, kneeling to grab at a piece of rusty bar. It would do as a crude club. Laughable against this enemy, yes, but it wouldn't be the first time he had faced down similar threats with little more than his bare servos... and then his optics finally decided to be useful. They focused properly on a small, black shape for a brief klik and then blurred out again, but he hummed for the short flash of clarity; it revealed a partially disassembled, unpowered blaster lying on a flat piece of scrap.

The design wasn’t Cybertronian; the tiny weapon once belonged to a much smaller species. Smuggled in no doubt, but it had proven ultimately useless to its previous owner, as without energy it was nothing more than a little lump of metal.

More crashing behind him, and Overlord's startled grunt; Megatron had landed a harsh blow. Two broken denta bounced off Optimus' mesh, the sheer force of the strike speckling him with Overlord's internal fluid.

Optimus turned his back to the fighters and forced himself to focus. Reassembling the little blaster in record time by mere touch, he reached into his subspace. He had a thousand and one problems right now, but energy wasn’t one of them. Refilling the power-cell by hand, he thumbed the device to its highest setting. He reconsidered, and then overloaded the power core.

In his state he would only get one shot... best make it count. He was kneeling, and his belly kept getting in the way, a reminder that there was more than just his life at risk. He shivered wordless apologies to the tiny frame nestled under his spark, as there was a good chance that even if he managed to survive his part of the upcoming fight, his delicate newspark wasn’t likely to withstand the coming thrashing.

But this madness had to end… whatever the cost.

The small weapon vanished into one servo and he grabbed a section of rusty bar. Hefting it, he turned and brandished it as a distraction as he stepped towards the two fighters. Another shiver ran down Optimus’ back strut, but he pushed the memory-files of past battles away...come what may, he couldn't back down from this menace.

“That's the spirit Optimus!” Overlord called over his shoulder, wildly amused. Dark laughter followed, directed towards Optimus and his pathetic little club.

Megatron called out in warning, not realizing what his counterpart was up to. The glyphs sounded almost desperate. It was an unusual sound, like so much of the undertones he'd been hearing from his old enemy lately.

Optimus saw Overlord kick Megatron out into the corridor, could see the dark blur that was Megatron flying through the air.

Then the maniac was coming towards him.

Swinging his rusty club, he wasn't surprised when Overlord batted it away with a bemused smirk. Making a show of stumbling back, Optimus exposed his bare neck cables, offering up a calculated weakness... he knew this enemy.

Overlord was overconfident to a fault. The maniac liked to play, and getting close enough to try to hurt him wasn't difficult. Getting away in one piece, _that_ was difficult.

Optimus let the madmech grab him by the neck. Harsh servos hefted him up and close, even as Megatron charged back into the cell-room with a snarl. He saw the angry blur that was Megatron slide to a halt at a barked command from Overlord, could feel the cold fingers around his throat tighten in threat.

It was in this moment he truly realized the depth of the risk he was taking.

 _I apologize for this,_ he offered his lament to the little light pulsing harmoniously in the lullaby of his spark-beat, even as Overlord grinned triumphantly at Megatron. Those terrible optics were alight with anticipation and no small amount of malice.

_I will do my best to protect us, but these may be our last moments. If I fail, we will journey to the Afterspark together, child._

_Until all are one…_

…

 

Sheer chaos was the order of the day in the Commons.

There was enough of it to bring a smile even to Unicron’s normally dour face plates, had he been in the area (and cared to pay attention to the toiling of mere mortals).

Charging through the trash, Wreck-Gar was hard at work trying to undo the damage his own mech had wrought.

He was furious.

Thrusting his spear outward, Wreck-Gar skewered a charging enemy with it. He vaulted over the dying alien’s back and ran full force after his wayward follower, who was fleeing with the energy module still clutched in his spindly fingers.

“Get that fragger!” Swindle cheered. He was providing backup for a small army of frantic (and very contrite) Junkions, currently trapped in a corner of the Commons. Their hooting and howling filled the air as they only barely kept the attacking gang from overwhelming them.  

In the Bailiwick entrance, Sunstreaker and Ion Storm were holding their own, though it helped that so many of the gang members were focused on trying to retrieve the energy module, chasing after Wreck-Gar who was chasing after his traitor-mech, who was running full tilt in frantic, random circles around the Courtyard, hurtling barricades, diving through trash-drifts and frog-leaping over any gang member trying to cut him off.

 _At least he knows better than to just hand it over to Overlord’s minions now,_ Pipes thought as he stabbed at an attacking gang member. _Idiot really stuck his foot in it, actually expecting fragging Overlord to keep his word._ In the distance, Pipes could see Underbite standing separate on a pile of slag, watching the battle with keen optics. The Chompazoid had cornered a Junkion and was busy consuming him, chewing slowly and clearly enjoying his meal.

 _So much for their nasty little agreement,_ Pipes scowled. _The Junkions aren’t being spared anything._

Perched on Snarl’s back, Pipes was forced to return his attention to defending Snarl’s sides as the Dynobot charged, burning and crushing and smashing through the attackers in a mad-cap defense of the Commons.

< –where the slag is the energy shield?! > Pipes winced for the desperation in Onslaught’s vocalizer. Things were no better out here, and the alien mechs were starting to surround them in dangerous numbers.

“Snarl,” Pipes called down to the rampaging Dynobot, “We have to _do_ something!”

Snarl reared back with a devastating roar, filling the Commons with a wave of burning flame. His stomping pedes moved in a slow circle as gang members rushed to get out of the way. It was most effective at clearing the area, as even Swindle and the gaggle of Junkions he was supporting had to hot-foot it to safety, “ _Frag all_ that is _hot,_ Snarl!”

Meanwhile Wreck-Gar was gaining on his mech, their mad dash almost comical for the howling horde of gang members running behind them.

“Cybertronians will kill us all!” The wretched betrayer dared cry back at him, cringing hard, but not slowing. Unrepentant of his betrayal.

Now Wreck-Gar was beyond furious. “Torture King kills us _now_!”

“You're mad, Hatter!” The fleeing Junkion shrieked as he ran, “Bonkers, completely off your head!”

Wreck-Gar launched himself upwards in a mighty leap and threw his energy spear, “I _show you_ mad!”

His spear found its mark, piercing the fleeing mech’s thigh, and the energy module went rolling across the Courtyard. Several alien mechs lunged for it, but they were too slow, and Wreck-Gar reclaimed the energy module with a flourish. Now the struggle was to fight his way back towards the Commons to reinstate the energy barrier.

Out of the corner of his optic Wreck-Gar saw his injured follower escape into the piled trash, even as Overlord’s gang surrounded him. Besieged, he snatched up his fallen spear and fought, deciding to deal with the betrayer later, publicly so as to repair the damage with their Cybertronian allies.

Assuming they survived…

…

 

Dark and light whirled around him as he flew through the air, and then Megatron met the ground hard. He rolled and scrabbled at the dingy floor with desperate fingers, slowing his slide, and then charged back towards the cell-room in half a klik.

But within that time Overlord had already wrapped cruel fingers around Prime's throat. Already hefted him up with a wide, maniac smile. Somehow, even while injured and dangling, Prime seemed fearless. He kicked at his tormentor, his engine growling rage at his attacker.

“Overlord–!”

“Stay there,” Overlord warned Megatron, his heavy frame thrumming hot with delight. "You just _stand there_ or I'll twist his helm right off his pathetic body."

Megatron stepped back for a moment, hesitating. Watching Megatron grind his denta, it was obvious to Overlord that he was debating whether he should charge forward.

_Take the risk or stand down?_

Standing down would be an absolute mistake, but charging forward would also end in Prime's death, and the kliks stretched. Overlord licked his lips, a long, full drag. His fingers twitched, feeling the delicate mesh, enjoying this power over his old leader.

Enjoying what, to him, was proof of Megatron's fall from power, his weakness.

Out in the corridor and beyond, Overlord's mechs – his slaves, entertainment, and food source – were hard at work obeying his orders. Following his commands to the letter, they were tearing though the Junkion's little foxhole. He could tell he was losing no small numbers of them, could hear their death knells. Unmoved, he ignored them; so easily replaced with the next shipment of prisoners. Their failures didn't surprise him; they _were_ aliens after all. So much more _satisfying_ to play with his own kind.

And this was only the beginning; he already knew how he wanted the games to start. He grinned at Megatron, gaze lingering on the softer metal of his intakes.

“I remember when we–”

“No,” Megatron shut down that memory train with finality. _Absolutely not. Never again. No matter what you do... such a dreadful mistake to indulge you._

Overlord's optics grew feverish with the pleasure of that memory, “I never forgot.”

Megatron assured him with a firm voice that he was the only one so devoted to old memories. His words were the full and complete truth. No matter his mind games, his deceptions, his investments and training of Overlord, no matter his many mistakes, this mech had only ever been a means to an end to him.

Certain mechs had no place in peaceful society, and Overlord was foremost among them. He was the first on a secret list for termination when Megatron's vision of the future became reality. The Achilles virus and the kill code should have kept Overlord in line, should have kept him under control until his usefulness came to an end... _mistakes…missteps…so many with this mech._

_So many._

Overlord saw Prime reach towards his face, bare fingers curled loose, as if the damaged Autobot was too weak to make a proper fist. Endless amusement coiled tight within him. He ignored the pathetic mech dangling from his harsh servo, so certain Prime wasn’t a threat.

Too distracted, too drunk with power. He’d never seen such honest desperation on Mighty Megatron’s face plates before. Not like this, and he was beyond charmed.

Something to fully explore–

…

 

Overlord pulled him close, and Optimus could feel his ex-vents ghost over his face. He growled defiance, the hidden blaster clenched between his fingers. The oily glyphs from Overlord’s vocalizer sounded dark and vile and cruel.

Megatron and Overlord traded harsh-sounding words while he was suspended between them, throat aching, but enduring.

_Wait for the right moment…_

Optimus coughed while dangling from the fist of this dreadful enemy as the fingers began to tighten and then the moment came... the perfect chance.

Overlord looked away, his intakes opening and a flash of yellow flickered behind Optimus’ optics, beloved and lost.

Megatron began to charge.

Optimus’ fingers tightened around the tiny blaster still hidden in his fist.

_This is for Bumblebee._

…

“Don’t worry,” Overlord promised him, “I know how to put some _steel_ back into your struts–” He wanted to hurt Megatron in the worst possible way and from the look on those harsh face plates, he knew just how to do it.

Prime was dangling, even as Overlord looked at Megatron, mouth slipping open, glyphs at the tip of his glossa, fingers starting to clench to follow through with his threat.

Megatron read his intentions and charged as a thousand threats exploded across his processor – _it is me that you want, focus on the real threat, don’t you hurt him you raving lunatic_ – and then Prime's lips thinned and something _insane_ happened.

A blaster – the tiny one he’d considered offering Wreck-Gar for his bag of treasures – appeared in Prime’s hand. He’d left it out after stripping it, intending to clean it. It didn't contain enough energy even for one shot – _useless oh Prime it’s useless_ – the muzzle now pressed between Overlord’s startled lips.

Then Prime pulled the trigger.

The point blank shot exploded past Overlord's lips and two sets of red optics flew open wide in shock. The hot burning blast blackened his denta and his glossa melted in his mouth. He slapped at his face as the hot blast spent itself against the inner wall of his helm, but not before burning its way down his fuel intake. Invited in by his instinctive gasp of pain, it set the contents of his fuel tank alight.

Overlord threw Prime to the side with an amazed warble – "you _hurt_ me" – the instinctive toss-away more from shocked reaction then malice. Fluid dribbled down his chin, a mix of internal, oral, and a rapidly solidifying liquid metal.

Sailing through the air, Prime felt a flash of disappointment. He’d been aiming upward for Overlord's processor, but his blurry vision had thrown off his aim. _Damn, damn it all_ and an instant later consciousness fled as Prime crashed off the side of the cell bars. His lax body fell back into the soft nest, loose and unconscious for the blow to his helm.

Megatron roared in a shock of rage and sheer delight – _you Primus-damned gorgeous truck_ – and added his fist to the pain train Overlord found himself riding.

Overlord stumbled back, taking hit after hit.

Overlord rallied even as he choked on the ruined slag that remained of his intakes. He realized he was going to need medical attention, except there was none for him, not _here_. Face plates now devoid of all amusement, he surged towards Megatron with an expression of sheer hate. Agony burned through his internals as his fuel combusted within him, trailing along his fuel lines and leaving char and ruin in its wake.

Taking full advantage, Megatron held nothing back as he forced Overlord out into the corridor and away from Prime.

…

Further inside the cave, Thundercracker was fighting off the invaders. Cornered, Skywarp, Thrust, and Dirge, were at his back. They were trying to fight their way out to the Courtyard, intending to help defend the Commons from the air.

It was a good plan, but the sheer numbers of alien invaders slipping past the Combaticons meant progress towards the Bailiwick entrance had to be measured in microns. Waves of enemies focused on the grounded seekers. They assumed – incorrectly – that the smaller flight frames would be easier targets then the vicious Combaticons.

“Wreck-Gar has recovered the energy shield module!” Thrust reported, “But we can’t restore it with Overlord in here!”

"We will fight our way there," Thundercracker grunted, "and escort him out ourselves."

Skywarp finished off the gang member he was fighting and stumbled back to catch his vents. Beside him, Thrust was struggling, and Skywarp stabbed the alien attacker in the back. More were already on the way…there were so many. It was obvious to him that there was no way they could reach Overlord in any sort of sane time frame. The solution was also painfully obvious.

“TC, let me go instead,” Skywarp offered. “I can just teleport him out of here!”

“Frag that,” Dirge grunted, one of his hands pressed tightly against a deep stab wound perilously close to his spark chamber. “Just warp Overlord’s helm into a rock and be done with it.” He groaned as bright blue spark-light peeked between his shaking fingers.

“It’s not that exact,” Skywarp muttered with regret. Anything he grabbed warped with him, and built in safeties kept him and any passengers safe from accidently materializing inside solid objects. It was a necessary tradeoff for the ability to swiftly warp without the need for exacting calculations. Otherwise one single mistake would have cost him his life long ago.

“No,” Thundercracker answered as he smashed an alien fighter back, “he knows your abilities and he’d be quick to retaliate. You would have to grab him, and he's too dangerous up close. You stay with me–”

“You have to stop!” Skywarp shrieked in his face plates.

 _'Can’t lose you too,'_ Thundercracker’s wings flicked as his fists dropped the gang member and he lunged for the next. His wing-speak was jumbled in the flash of light and dark and the crash and shudder of battling forms, but his meaning was crystal-clear.

Dirge and Thrust shared a disparaging look – well at least **somebody** is going to stay all nice and safe today _–_ even as they flicked their wings in acknowledgement. The Air Commander could be as biased as he liked, he was in charge. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be teasing the hell out of Skywarp about it later… and Thrust was feeling particularly uncharitable today.

Skywarp hissed in anger as he kicked his attacker back, flicking back his response, ' _Your orders aren’t_ _fair, they aren’t right and you know it!'_

“’Warp,” Thundercracker yelled out, “Don’t! He will kill you–”

But with a _wharp_ , he was gone.

…

 

Onslaught could barely stay ahead of the Hexadar’s blades. He shouted out the obvious, <We need more support down here! And where the slag is the energy shield?!> as he found  himself parrying more than fighting.

Swindle’s answer came back a moment later, <Wreck-Gar has it! He chased down the mech that stole the module! But he says they have to move it so it can cover the new hole in the Bailiwick!> His comm echoed with Snarl’s warning rumble, as the Dynobot filled the Commons with hellish flame.

Onslaught could hear the frantic _tromp-tromp-tromp_ of Swindle’s pedes as he relocated himself to a safer spot. < _Frag all_ that is _hot,_ Snarl!>

“’Warp! Don’t! He will kill you–” Onslaught heard Thundercracker’s frantic shout and the Hexadar took advantage of his momentary distraction, lunging forward and scoring a deep slice along Onslaught’s lower abdominals. He stumbled in surprise as the Hexadar reared back for a killing blow, and then Brawl swung his sword in a heavy arc, separating the mech from his head. The body flopped backward, its limbs twitching in gruesome death-spasms.

Onslaught grunted approval at Brawl even as another alien mech took the Hexadar’s place, along with several others. Among them was a flight-enabled Lithonian, who stayed back and shouted orders. He was obviously trying to organize the attack as the gang members didn't have internal comms. Stomping towards him, Onslaught intended to put the sub-commander to the sword, but more mechs surged through the breech and Onslaught was forced to fall back.

_Was there no end to these bastards?_

It seemed the answer to that question was no. Violently outnumbered, it was to their credit that the Cybertronians were holding up so well under the flood. It did help that the aliens were broken, and forced the fight this battle on behalf of their mad-mech of a leader. No one wanted to fight the Cybertronians, but the alternative was far worse. Thus the battle continued unabated, and the breems passed like kliks.

During a brief lull in the fighting, Onslaught was irritated to discover that he was still one team mate short. <Swindle! Hurry up and get your aft down here!> Onslaught ordered as he engaged the next wave of attackers.

<I’m trying! We are overwhelmed out here!>  Swindle confirmed Onslaught’s order, but he barely finished when a massive _boom_ reverberated through the Courtyard, the hit so intense that the entire upper grating shuddered.

<What the _holy_ _frag_?! > but Swindle’s shocked cry was interrupted as his comms cut out an instant later.

The flight-enabled Lithonian hesitated, stepping back with curiosity, and then fled back the way he came, back towards the Courtyard to investigate. That was one hell of an impact, and there shouldn’t be anything out there that impressive…

…

 

Sideswipe and Jazz watched from the protection of a trash-drift as Megatron and Overlord battered each other.

They fought like maddened beasts, internal fluid coating both their frames. Megatron looked worse off for physical injury, but something was dreadfully wrong with Overlord _internally_.

Puffs of hot smoke boiled past Overlord’s intakes and he was _shaking_. He'd traded in his near-constant smirk for a look of growing desperation.

Megatron's shoulder appeared out of alignment, he was limping, leaking from countless wounds across his body, and his fists were bleeding from the sheer _force_ of his strikes. But there was a grim smile across his face plates, along with a sense of impending victory in the steady lumber of his movements.

Megatron was _winning_.

To the watching Autobots, this conflict held every marker of some sort of Decepticon infighting. Although Sideswipe's opinion of his rescuers had softened thanks to Ion Storm and the Armada, Jazz held no such affection for the masses of former Decepticons battling everywhere. They still had no idea why they’d been dumped in this underground city-turned-prison. No clue why they were now surrounded by warring ‘cons and alien mechs.

 _This is nuts,_ Jazz waved at ‘Sides as the two juggernauts continued their battle, drawing ever closer to an inevitable conclusion. _Have to find Prime and get out of here._

 _Crazy-town,_ Sideswipe agreed, a flash of guilt crossing his bare face. He hadn't meant to get his leader and friends in trouble. He'd just wanted to find Sunny...

They both crept forward, searching the cell-rooms for their Prime. They moved with agonizing slowness, doing everything they could to avoid drawing attention to themselves, skirting the fighting with the utmost caution. But 'Sides hesitated, looking back towards Sunstreaker and Ion Storm still holding the Bailiwick entrance. Both mechs held special meaning to him, and he felt a strong draw in that direction. He was no weakling. He could help, if only to watch their backs...

But Jazz caught him looking and shook his helm. _Hey,_ _stay focused, we have to save our own. Your brother can take care of himself._

'Sides nodded forlornly. They continued to search, though Jazz watched him from the corner of his optic. He would never, never say it aloud, but Jazz wasn't surprised to see Sunstreaker standing with the ‘cons. Sunstreaker had betrayed them all to Megatron some time ago, acting as the catalyst for the Big Push. While it was true he'd done so after an extremely traumatic captivity that had influenced his decisions, no small numbers of Autobots had paid with their lives. Sideswipe (and more importantly, Prime) had forgiven him, but Jazz kept his own council on such matters.

There was a roar below, “ ** _Devastate_**!” and a rumble as a huge mass of Constructicon green tore through the deeper strata below.

Jazz froze, optics staring down at Devastator, and his fingers curled fear. What the hell was going on down there? What was with Devastator's _face_? _...was Prowl in danger?_

 _Go,_ Sideswipe waved at him. He understood, he really, truly did. _Go check on Prowl. Something is wrong. The others might be in danger._

Jazz looked over at him, hesitating. All around them were the darkened forms of battling mechs, filling the air with pained cries and clashing weapons. Jazz knew he really shouldn’t leave ‘Sides here alone. They were both vulnerable, leaving was dangerous, crazy mechs lurking everywhere, but this was his Prowl down there. Prowl, Prowler, Prowlie-bot...

 _I will find Optimus,_ ‘Sides offered. _He might need help. You go back, check on the others._

Finally Jazz nodded with a grateful expression. _Thanks for this, mi'mech. Losin' my processor over here..._

Thus Sideswipe and Jazz separated... and the earnest Lambo was left searching the cell-rooms alone as the Porsche fled, disappearing back through the slats, back towards the secret hollow to check on his once-lover. Prowl, who was helpless; at least Optimus was awake and not chained down in a dream-state.

Devastator was wearing Prowl's face plates. It didn't make _sense_.

...

Down below, Devastator was singlehandedly defending the secret tunnel. The collective 'he' had forgotten in his wild rampage to collapse the tunnel behind him.

In the end it didn’t matter.

Murderous charge towards the secret tunnel interrupted, Overlord’s gang found themselves the targets of a murder machine with far greater aspirations of devastation. Now the gang was too busy fleeing back up the stairwells or hiding in random crevasses (bad plan! bad plan!) to take advantage of the tunnel. Seeing them flee to avoid his wrath, Devastator clambered after them. He parted them like an ungainly barge through water, sending them scattering before him.

 

<Get this freak off me! Someone help!>

 

Crackling over internal comms, many voices shouted orders and shrieked updates in Devastator's audials. He didn’t bother to listen. He was only interested in the tiny alien mechs around him. Amusement coiled within him, originating from Prowl's circuitry as the aliens tried to rally.

Devastator positioned himself so that his massive legs and knees faced forward, the thickest of his armor. Damaged and lacking plating, Devastator's bare helm – Prowl's body – stayed low. Anyone attacking would have a hell of a time reaching him. He was physically weak, but his battle computer remained functional with his team's support.

 

<Could use some backup right about now!>

 

Prowl hadn't been functional, and waking up to this battle was a surreal experience. Watching the gang members stabbing at him with spears (spears!?) he struggled to take them seriously. Even as the rest of his components assured him this situation was no laughing matter.

Devastator felt another surge of amusement as the aliens struggled to stay ahead of his single, grasping arm. Luckily for them, Bonecrusher was still enslaved to the Quintesson. With him gone, they were down an arm, and it made things a little more difficult. Instead, Devastator crept forward one knee-length at a time, using their arm and fist like a wrecking ball, lashing back and forth.

 

<Everyone needs backup! Keep fighting! And where is Hook? Dirge is in bad shape!>

 

The part of Devastator that was Prowl was not impressed. Some of these aliens were downright dangerous. _Why are we making so much progress so quickly?_

There was too much going on to sit and sift through memory-files to glean the backstory. Too busy fighting for calm reflection, yet Prowl’s battle computer couldn’t help but factor in that while there were more than enough aliens to give even Devastator trouble, they were too disorganized and fearful to be effective opponents. _Such pathetic organization. Have they no competent leaders?_

The answer to that, as provided by Long Haul’s part of their combined processor, was no. _They only have Overlord, and he’s not been sane for a while now._

 

<Constructicons are below with the barricade team! The tunnel is still clear, thank Primus!>

 

_Overlord._

That was a loaded name, and Prowl’s battle computer instantly re-calibrated itself. Priority trees rearranged for this new bit of data, as he was still catching up to current events. _Overlord is here…_ he was a threat that must be dealt with immediately. His aggression towards Overlord flared through them all. His hate surged through their combined circuits, shared and redoubled. _We will finish him today. We will bring this madness to an end._

Now _there_ was a thought they could all get behind. Overlord was far above them, and Devastator moved with renewed purpose.

 

<–fist, aft-licker! You like that, fragger? You like that? Here, have another! Have a pede up your tail pipe! _……_ _“sword, Brawl!”_ _………_ “I fraggin’ know I have a fraggin’ sword! Stompin’ mechs is more fun! Now frag off!” >

 

 _Clear the way, and then upwards,_ Prowl directed and they followed his lead.

Bodies flew here and there as Devastator made short work of the ones that dared attack him. Thanks to Hook's sensitive scanners, Devastator could make out the heat signatures of hidden mechs. He went after them with gleeful intent. Scavenger and Mixmaster's circuitry provided most of the thrill that raced down Devastator's back strut as he reached in and dragged them out from their hiding places. Crushing them without mercy.

 

<YES! Finally! Guys, Wreck-Gar just recovered the energy module! He says it’s damaged but functional. Snarl told him to move the housing into the Bailiwick to cover all the holes–>

 

Finally the lower levels seemed clear enough, and Devastator began to stomp towards the stairways. They were almost too small to accommodate him. He punched at them, but found them beyond stout.

 _Titan-steel resists all shearing forces,_ Scavenger’s helpful whisper sounded in their minds. They could feel Prowl growing bolder. His mental voice was growing stronger for their shared link. But something was waiting in the depths. They could all feel it, as within him lurked a strange sense of intense… fear.

 

<Negative! Do not raise the energy shield yet! Not until Overlord is clear!>

 

The part of them that was Hook recognized it as likely from the carrier coding. _Now that we have combined with Prowl, it is likely the guardian coding will be activated from all of the–_

 _Later,_ Long Haul pushed Hook’s medicinal thoughts away.

 

<Air Commander! With all due respect, Breakdown is dying and there are more heading up the stairwell! Sunstreaker and I can’t hold out much longer!>

 

 _We will defeat Overlord first._ Prowl’s orders flowed through their link, not from his possessor proper, but issued from his battle computer. Still focused on the fight, they could fully understand him.

_Then we will separate._

 

<If we raise that shield while Overlord is in here, then we are all as good as dead!>

 

His mental processes were beginning to straighten, growing stronger for the link. A thrill jolted through them, this was the commanding Prowl they loved. _Then you will repair my–_

 

<Overlord is no longer a concern; I stand victorious. He will be crushed beneath my pede and sanity will be restored. Now get that shield up–>

 

_…Megatron!_

Prowl went from ignoring the internal comms to focusing on them with a white hot intensity. He was instantly enraged by that voice. The other Constructicons recoiled from that rage, even as they understood it.

_Megatron is here?!_

They surged upward at Prowl’s command, but nervous confusion rippled through their link now. The part of him that was Long Haul pushed back and reminded them of a critical reality; _Megatron leader._

Prowl disagreed with vehemence. _He hurt me!_

Technically, it was Hook who had hurt him. Mixmaster’s circuitry offered up that little kernel of truth with uncalled-for cheer. Hook's mental presence flinched for the memory-files that surged through Prowl’s components. So vivid, so intense. Helpless, bound under someone else’s harsh control, forced to lie to his friends, every single frustrating day. Surgery after surgery, every single horrifying night. Frantic, he’d been locked inside himself, beyond desperate for help and freedom. But no one noticed his distress. No one, not even his so-called friends. Not even his so-called lover-

 _Unfortunate,_ Long Haul's circuitry offered up that uncaring word, with a ‘but’ and an excuse to follow. Then he hesitated, feeling Prowl instantly reject his pretend-polite-concern. He winced mentally as he couldn't help that he didn't really care. After all, everyone suffered from bad things now and again, such was life...

 _Megatron is leader,_ Long Haul reminded them again. Yes what happened was bad from Prowl's point of view, but now is not the time to redress old grievances-

_He hurt me!_

More vivid memories from Prowl and they all quailed inside. His memory-files reminded of how he’d been forced to walk back to his flat every evening by Bombshell’s oily vocalizer. That hated voice always whispering orders into his mind through the cerebral shell. Every evening that long walk down the corridor to his rooms, while dreading what was waiting for him.

Prowl hated Hook. Hated his careless surgical instruments and vile comments and pain, pain, pain. Hated Long Haul, standing back and watching his torture without the slightest qualm. Hated Mixmaster, always giggling in the background. Hated Bonecrusher, always flicking him across the nasal ridge in greeting, egging Hook on to greater cruelties. Hated Scavenger, lurking in the background with helpful comments that always led to more pain.

They all cringed away from his accusations; and none of them dared offer him excuses. They were guilty and denied nothing and he hated them all, but they were too useful to discard. If he wanted to wield them then he had to deal with what they had done to him. They were his now; his to control and to _punish._

Yes, Hook was the worst of them, true, but even _he_ was Prowl’s now.

But Megatron. _Megatron._

It was Megatron who had authorized and ordered the attack. He was the eternal enemy, the one who’d unleashed the Constructicons upon him. It was Megatron who was ultimately responsible.

_Kill Megatron!_

They hesitated, but then surged forward at his command, overwhelmed for his beautiful hatred. They bashed their way forward, intending to struggle upwards. But they floundered at the first set of stairwells. They couldn’t rip the grating apart… and it was Scavenger who suggested they might _bend_ it. And so they put their considerable power into their one arm, and applied all of their strength. With agonizing slowness they forced the grating, feeling it shuddering, and then it gave.

Thus Devastator arrived with a roar onto the next level.

Upward he climbed, his mental discord growing stronger and stronger for each step. Upward he fought, as he continued to shatter the spine of Overlord’s gang, tearing through them level by level. Leaving broken frames and utter ruin in his wake, he threw back his helm and voiced his rage.

**"DEVASTATE!"**

…

Optimus was still unconscious for the hit to his helm when 'Sides finally found him. Buried face down in the soft nest, he struggled back to consciousness amid a flurry of Sideswipe’s excited clicks. Sitting up with a groan, he blinked when his optics focused on his prodigal Lambo's face.

 _You..._ Optimus squinted at him in disapproval _...are in big trouble._

Optimus placed his hands on his hips to further show just how disappointed he was – _very disappointed!_ – but forgot he was already using them to hold himself up. He ended up face-planting back into the soft bedding, and groaned.

 _I know, I know! But come on! Hurry!_   Sideswipe gestured at Prime while tugging frantically. _Overlord is losing, and Megatron is killing him! Now he's coming back this way!_

But Optimus didn't understand any of that. He was too sluggish, his processor protesting the blow to his helm, his injuries and his appalling lack of rest.

Listening to the battle in the distance, Sideswipe could make out the sound of determined pede-falls pounding in their direction. The latches on his frame flared. He was afraid for the mad-mech heading this way, but remained intent on coaxing Optimus to safety.

With Sideswipe's help, Optimus finally struggled to his pedes, and they bustled down the cell rows. Ducking past battling mechs, 'Sides watched with worry how his leader struggled to move. Optimus was clearly exhausted and he stumbled more then walked. Heading towards the light of the Commons in the distance, both mechs froze when Overlord’s harsh glyphs ground glass into their audials. Optimus jolted, recognizing that hated voice. He coughed and slowed, skidding to a halt and turning.

 _Keep moving!_ Sideswipe tugged on him frantically, _we have to get out of here!_

Not a klik later and Overlord's massive fist grabbed for Optimus, with 'Sides only barely shoving Optimus out of the way in time.

Further down the passage, Megatron was limping towards them in a frantic hurry, almost hopping. It would be comical if the stakes weren't so damned high. His much-abused knee joint had jammed up completely, and rescue was hurtling toward them one miserable, staggering step after the other.

Optimus stumbled and fell back onto his aft, staring up into Overlord's dimming, desperate optics with surprise.

_I really did hurt him._

'Hurt' was an understatement; Overlord was leaking profusely from his intakes. His life was draining from him in great gouts, and he needed some sort of leverage against Mighty Megatron, and he needed it _now_.

Optics wild with desperation, Overlord tried again to grab at Optimus, "Come _here_ you miserable–"

But Megatron rose up like a viper behind him. Having no intention of giving Overlord any chance to negotiate for a cession of violence or repairs, Megatron braced himself. He raised both fists and dropped them in a massive, crippling blow.

Overlord took the hit and something deep inside, something _important_ cracked, and Overlord moaned and fell to his knees.

 _Not supposed to happen this way,_ Overlord shuddered for the growing weakness in his limbs. _I was supposed to win._ Pain and that familiar shame and despair he felt whenever Megatron handed him defeat twisted inside him, amalgamating into a strut-deep rage.

_I was supposed to win!_

Sideswipe chirped in dismay as Overlord somehow rallied, lunging forward in that last instant, grabbing hold of Optimus and hauling him forward. Optimus' abdominals smacked into Overlord's chest plate as Sideswipe smashed into Overlord as Megatron, snarling, wrapped his bleeding fists around Overlord's neck, intending to _twist_ his damned helm off–

Then with a flash of light and a _wharp_ sound, the entire mess of battered, desperate mechs vanished.


	15. Pandemonium-Addendum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some bad mechs get what’s coming to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written to “Soldier” - by Fleurie
> 
> NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :) 
> 
> **Oh my god this chapter tried to kill me.** It didn't want to come out right, no matter what I did. Dear sweet Primus, I dead now. Also, I know I said I would be touching on the Autobots in this one, but this chapter was running way too long, and I had to cut it off. Autobots next chapter, for sure.

“The dawn is breaking and now the anti-gravs are _melting_!”

The Allicon, a low-ranking junior, peered out the tiny view port at Uytis’ hellish landscape. The bitter star remnant peeked over the horizon with a cruel smile. He was just beginning his long journey into the sky, and streams of burning light cut through the air as the ground hissed and burbled.

The Quintesson troop-carrier shuddered beneath the slaver's feet. The carrier was losing altitude fast. Then the brilliant light from the cresting star struck their vehicle and the outer layer began to melt. Molten metal oozed over the port hole and the junior Allicon flinched, stepping back and away as his view cut off.

Not designed to transverse molten surfaces, the carrier shuddered again. The metal floor was burning hot and getting hotter the closer to the surface they dropped. Their only protection from Uytis’ surface was faltering, and things were looking grim for the survivors.

Broiling stench filled the smoky air, smelling of burning machinery... the stink of desperation.

“Steady onward,” the ranking Allicon growled while clutching at the railing for support. The vehicle began rising and dropping like some cheap amusement park ride, and there was nothing they could do but hope the wretched vehicle endured long enough to ferry them to safety. Their only hope of survival was the sunken penitentiary, just visible in the distance. It seemed so tantalizingly close, and yet for the unforgiving terrain, still too far away.

The junior Allicon stumbled, fumbling at the communication controls. Poking and prodding at the equipment, he grew more and more frustrated as the device refused to produce any useful results. “I cannot hail the prison on any frequency!” He cried with one last stabbing poke at the console.

The ranking Allicon scowled as he further considered the situation. “The rumors may be true then. It seems they have fallen to anarchy. It is no matter. We will deal with whoever is in charge when we arrive, and demand they return our property regardless.”

The junior Allicon looked ill for the thought. "The filth may fight us."

“We should have faced them down from orbit," the ranking Allicon agreed, "and with overwhelming numbers.  Yet another wretched complication. This mission has been one failure after another.”

Charged to recover critical assets, the operation had been fraught with difficulties right from the start. They’d waylaid the Mauler prison ship _Retribution_ on route to Uytis, taking heavy damage in the fight. They were mid-fight when they discovered the Mauler ship wasn’t carrying any of the missing assets. Both ships taking damage, the _Retribution_ had fled, and the Quintesson had continued on to Uytis, only to run afoul of _The Benign Intervention_ shortly after arrival _._

Captain K’gard’s smug face (what sort of primitive beast has only one face?!) was only the largest nail in a coffin already filled with them.

Even after being shot down without quarter, the new Grand Assessor (the old one hadn’t survived judgment for his failures) had still expected _The Benign Intervention_ to uphold interplanetary law, especially in regards to aiding damaged vessels after hostile incursions. Transmitting their demands, they included begrudging confirmation that they would behave peaceably for rescue.

The astro-seconds went long with no reply.

Growing concerned, the Grand Assessor also transmitted the relevant interplanetary procedures as a reminder. They were genuinely astonished and enraged when they received only a terse, text-based reply: having been invited into Mauler space by the captain of the _Retribution_ , Captain K’gard was currently outside of Galactic Council space, and thus the regular restrictions need not apply.

_The nerve!_

The Grand Assessor and his battle-commanders had screamed themselves hoarse over the communication lines, demanding aid. But _The Benign Intervention_ had left the sector not long after, returning to Galactic Council space as Captain K’gard was certain that no one could survive Uytis for long.

The Quintesson soon discovered that he wasn’t wrong in his assessment. That became clear as they and their slaves hunkered down in the deepest part of their ship, awaiting a rescue that would never come. The powerless vessel immediately began to smelt to death, and perhaps Skywarp could be forgiven for thinking the molten mess fatal; he was only half wrong.  As soon as the heat breached the deepest levels of the ship, the last survivors trundled into a larger troop transport vessel and made a last ditch effort to save themselves.

At the front of the transport, soft snuffling could be heard. “I don’t want to die here,” the junior Allicon whimpered.

The ranking Allicon just looked down at the burning floor and ground his teeth.

 

* * *

Just about to try and take Overlord’s helm off, Megatron saw Skywarp’s surprised expression amid a whirlwind of blinding color and felt the familiar jolt of teleportation.

Stumbling back in spite of having teleported before, Megatron blinked as they all reappeared in another locale in a flash of light. To him the transition was instantaneous, but he hissed as his chronometer reset itself; nineteen astro-seconds later then when they'd disappeared. He immediately recognized their new location as the middle of the Courtyard. It was currently filled with injured and reluctant gang members, some of them whirling towards the unusual sound.

In that same instant, Overlord rolled away from Megatron's deathly grip while reaching for Prime. Desperate to save himself, he knew he needed leverage.

But Sideswipe was too quick on the ball. Kicking off Overlord’s chest plate, Sideswipe dragged a disoriented Optimus Prime right out of Overlord's reach. The two carrying mechs tumbled down into a trash drift and away.

Skywarp wasn’t so fortunate.

Thundercracker hadn’t been exaggerating about how dangerous this stunt actually was. Skywarp knew he had to be faster than fast if he wanted to keep his plating intact. He just hadn’t counted on everyone _else_ colliding into Overlord at the same time, turning a reckless two-mech teleport into a five-mech disaster.

Overextending himself teleporting so many, he was now too weak to move and slumped against Overlord’s back with a groan. Only he understood just how damned lucky they were to have re-materialized at all.

All around them, fearful alien faces took in Overlord's re-appearance. Panic ensued as they swamped towards him, desperate for his approval… _until they saw his dreadful condition_. From the sudden darting glances and shared looks of hope, it was clear Overlord could expect no help from his mechs.

There was no loyalty here.

Oh, they still feared him. Most of them did resume their attack. But no one stepped forward to challenge Megatron on Overlord’s behalf; everyone suddenly had other targets that had to be dealt with _right now_.

Overlord saw death incarnate turn towards him with harsh, bleeding fists. He knew _that_ look on Megatron’s face plates and desperation gave him one last burst of strength.

Turning on the only other mech still within reach, Overlord crushed Skywarp against him, even as internal fluid gushed from his ruined intakes. Thrusting out a servo, he tore through Skywarp’s cockpit. Using his drill-fingers to brutal effect, he raked them over the captive spark chamber while forcing Skywarp's body between him and Megatron.

"Stop," Overlord warbled up at Megatron, "Stop now or he _dies_."

Across the Courtyard, the commotion caught Underbite's attention. He'd been hard at work trying to play for both sides. Doing his best to look busy for his own crew, he'd taken out the occasional Junkion that ventured too close. Otherwise, he’d stayed out of the fighting, making sure not to engage any of the Cybertronians.

Plausible deniability…

Taking one look at Overlord’s mangled face and body, he was overcome with glee. Clacking his beak in anticipation, he clambered down from his trash drift and began to stalk towards his glitch-hole of a leader.

Suddenly there seemed an end in sight, and whatever happened, Underbite intended to be on the winning side. Landing a killing blow against Overlord would definitely endear him to the seemingly-triumphant Cybertronians…

 

* * *

 

At the back of the transport, the three surviving Cybertronian slaves were miserable for the heat, but thankfully not to the extent of their vile masters.

“Tired of hotness,” Sludge complained to Slag while chewing on the metal in his mouth. The complex bit and ornate battle harness strapped over and around his huge body irritated him. Locked into Dyno-mode since capture, their impressive frames had endeared them to high-ranking Quintesson battle-commanders as delightfully fearsome mounts.

Slag grunted in quiet agreement while shifting his weight on his four heavy pedes. “Hope these wretches die soon. Then grab Blue and bolt for stupid prison.”

“Kill everyone there,” Sludge’s helm drooped. “Then sleep… long time sleep. Sludge very tired.”

 _Let’s rush them_ _now_ , Bluestreak signed at them. He was careful to keep his finger-movements hidden from the groaning Quints.

Slag considered that while looking over the scores of Allicon soldiers as Sludge’s long neck curled with a shiver. They might be able to withstand the shock collars at full blast for an astro-second or so, and the last of the green organic shock troops had recently perished. The rest of the Quintesson army didn’t look so good either. Mouths agape and panting for the heat, the slavers were growing weaker by the joor.

But in their hands they held that great equalizer; energy blasters.

“Don’t dare get knocked off-line here,” Slag finally answered, though not without a wince. Preaching restraint was Snarl’s routine. Slag was always the one who charged first, reckless and uncaring, and he was embarrassed for the turnaround. But captivity had taught him some small semblance of patience. He and Sludge had tried to overwhelm these monsters early on in their captivity. Several times in fact, but as powerful as the Dynobots were, the control devices were just too damned effective.

It never ended well for them.

“They burning. We will wait. Heat attacks them for us.” Slag leaned down and shook himself, his low words almost drowned out by his rattling harness. Tight straps covered the Quintesson military symbols painted on his sides, and he grumbled for his discomfort, hating his miserable functioning.

Bluestreak nodded with a faint expression.

He finally relaxed a little after leaning back against Sludge's side for comfort. The easy-going Dynobot allowed the contact. He even ignored the constant twitching of Blue’s lip plating. More so the oral fluid that dripped from his intakes.

Bluestreak wasn’t making a sound, but only for the harsh chunk of metal in his mouth. It was an ongoing punishment for his lack of control over his own noise. Unfortunately for Bluestreak, his constant chatter was a defense mechanism borne from deep trauma. It turned out that heaping more distress atop his damaged psyche to try and silence him was less than helpful. When the Allicon couldn’t train him to be quiet, they’d muzzled him in compromise. He was too valuable to kill and otherwise too obedient for reassignment as a carrier-mech. Thus the gag filled his mouth and throat and quieted his vocalizer. He’d grown accustomed to it, even appreciating it to a point; punishment had ceased once they’d throttled his voice.

Bluestreak rocked back and forth, enduring the heat as best he could. Nestling against Sludge helped, and he was almost cheerful to see the Allicons huffing and grunting in misery.

Along with him, Slag and Sludge were particularly agreeable to watch the Quintesson suffer for a change. The Dynobots had been beside themselves with delight when their riders (the egg-shaped, pure-breed Quintesson battle-commanders) succumbed, their delicate internal components melting within them.

Now only the strongest remained; a contingent of armored Allicons and the three Cybertronian slaves.

The Allicon were hardier then the purebred Quintesson, but only to a point. They were trans-organic, and organic components and molten heat didn’t play well together. It was undeniable... the Allicon were slowly succumbing. The Autobots kept looking at each other, holding eye contact with renewed hope and then looking away, huffing in the heat.

Freedom seemed inevitable, if they could just survive this murderous planetoid.

 

* * *

 

The loudest wharp he’d ever heard.

That was what startled Snarl into whirling. Out in the Commons, busy stomping aliens, it took a lot to catch Snarl’s attention when he was rampaging. But that wharp sound did it. Then he blinked when recognized Megatron standing amidst the Courtyard with Overlord at his pedes. He heard Pipes gasp when they both saw Overlord lash out at Skywarp, but then they lost sight of the showdown. Too many swarming gang members in the way. But a vicious grin split the Dynobot’s muzzle for the mess that was Overlord’s face plates and the sheer desperation he’d seen there.

“Does this mean the fighting’s almost over?” Pipes sounded as weary as Snarl felt.

Snarl charged at another group of attackers. “Donno,” he coughed, and then whirled at the last moment to lash at them with his tail. The attacks _were_ slowing, however. Snarl stumbled back a few steps in surprise when he realized the Commons was clear of attackers, at least for the moment.

Still atop Snarl’s back and doing a wonderful job keeping him alive, Pipes was beyond tired. He threw his helm back, ventilating with shallow gasps. “It’s too hot now to fight. We all have to stop fighting.”

Snarl snorted. “Tell _them_ that.”

“Guys!” Swindle’s shaky cry sounded from nearby, “Skywarp just dumped Overlord into the Courtyard! He’s clear!”

“Thank Primus,” Pipes said, and Snarl had to agree. They already knew, but the unstated conclusion was still good to hear. An end to all the madness seemed in sight, and they were both agreeable to that.

Nearby, one of the Junkions continued to fuss with the energy shield’s housing, working to move the mess indoors without damaging it. As soon as they could get it inside the Bailiwick the faster they could retreat to some cover. But the contrary device didn’t want to cooperate and kept shocking the junk-techie every time he tried to lift it.

Snarl couldn’t help but chortle to see the Junkion twitch and yelp, even as tired as he was. He felt Pipes sigh and lay his helm down on his heavy flank, felt his soft vents, and Snarl’s optics softened a bit. Just a bit, though, and _nobody_ tell Grimlock.

_Bzzt!_

The beleaguered techie jumped again and grumbled, “This stuff's made in New York city!” while fighting with the irritable piece of technology.

One of the junk-piles called back a feeble, “Get a rope!” Several of the other Junkions tried to laugh, but doubled over in coughing fits instead, as even the Junkions were almost too tired to stand.

Along with Snarl, Pipes, and Swindle, the last of the Junkions stood as a living barricade for the Commons, still defending the energy shield housing. Snarl bristled, seeing the next wave of attackers already on approach. “Wreck-Gar,” Snarl roared as he crushed a dying mech beneath his pedes to intimidate them, “Keep them busy for a little while longer!”

Far across the Courtyard, Wreck-Gar shouted back affirmative. 

Cut off from the Commons, the maniac Junkion leader had the small energy module tucked under his arm as he continued to lead the pursuing horde on a maniac fox-chase. Overlord had wanted the energy module, and no small numbers of his gang were desperate to obey.

The apex of a vicious storm, Wreck-Gar couldn’t stop running if he intended to keep the module. He dodged a thrown spear as he climbed and then leapt from a catwalk. Landing on a thick cable that stretched from the ceiling to the far cavern wall, he started to tight-rope walk across it for funsies. Below him, the dangling corpses started to jiggle as if dancing, and Wreck-Gar saluted them merrily.

The gang threw spears up at him, howling in exasperation, which he promptly avoided with an acrobat’s skill. Twirling in place, he waved the energy module teasingly at them while shouting, “Still going!”

…he back flipped...

“Nothing outlasts the Energizer! They keep going!”

…ducked another spear...

“and going!”

…Cossack kicks with _perfect_ form…

“and going!”

“Primus dammit Wreck-Gar!” Pipes howled, fully at the end of his patience for Junkion shenaniganry. “Be careful!”

“Your leader is bolt-loose,” Snarl growled, and one of the junk piles near him threw up a servo in a _yeah but least he got chicken_ sort of gesture.

Shaking his helm, Pipes slid from Snarl’s back to the ground. His pedes hit the grating with a _clunk_. Standing amid the mess of faltering Junkions, he shouted into the screaming abyss that was internal comms,  <Just hang tight guys! We are working on it! Energy shield will be back up soon!>

<Just hurry,> Onslaught’s exhausted reply summed up their situation. <Mechs are on their last legs and the star’s coming up. Much longer and we are all done for.>

“Still too many inside,” Pipes said, wincing for all the frantic shouts and cries for help over internal comms.

“Gonna stomp through and help clear the way,” Snarl agreed. “Stay here with the Junkions. Protect the shield housing. Will come back for you.”

Snarl belched more flame, one last volley, and then stomped towards the Bailiwick while Pipes took up position next to the working Junkion techie. With a furious roar, Snarl began his charge as Sunstreaker and Ion Storm stumbled to the side to let him pass. The Bailiwick entrance was clear as the aliens were currently focusing on the Junkion lines, and after Snarl passed, only Ion Storm retook position. Sunstreaker started to, but he was shaking for fluid loss, and collapsed after a few steps. He'd held on for the entirety of the fight, but now he was at the end of his strength.

"Stay down for now," Ion Storm called to him, "Something is happening out there! I can see Megatron and I think the end is in sight."

Sunstreaker groaned affirmative. He crawled on his belly, pulling himself forward to lie across the forlorn Stunticon already sprawled on the ground. Breakdown's frame still held color, but he was going deathly pale. With a soft moan, Sunny pressed his fingers into the mess that was Breakdown's neck cables. Pinching off the worst of the slashed tubing, it felt like too little, too late as the leaking had already stopped.

Breakdown's ventilations were so, so shallow.

"Don't go," Sunny whispered into a fading audial, "Help is coming. Don't go or I will... I will... _just hold on_ , ok?"

Shivering from more than just fluid loss and heat strain, Sunny pressed his cheek against Breakdown’s. He could feel the faintest of vents still swirling around him.  Whispering glyphs of comfort laced with threats, he both offered and clung to the barest threads of hope.

 

* * *

 

 _They dream of revolt,_ the ranking Allicon scowled back at the last of the Cybertronian slaves for this doomed contingent. He didn't miss the meaning behind their keen glances.

Watching the three assets out of the corner of his optic, he remained suspicious of them. He’d already lost his original battle-mech to rebellion; the powerful leader of the Decepticons. His name already forgotten, Megatron’s Allicon remembered his slave foremost by the hatred that had burned in his optics.

Further escape couldn't be tolerated.

 _Best to make an example of one when we arrive, to remind them of their place,_ he decided. _A damned good beating should suffice. Or perhaps a pain stick stabbed into sensitive places._ His own treatment at the hands of his superiors for his failures had given him _ideas_ , and he was more than happy for an opportunity to inflict them. It was the only way he knew of easing his personal dismay for his situation.

But grim reality interrupted his pleasant imaginings as the hauler began to sputter. Then the troop-carrier jolted as the anti-grav failed, and the carrier met the harsh kiss of ground. The engine cut out for the increase in temperature, giving up the ghost with a dismal groan. All forward movement ceased and panic took hold.

“This is it?” One Allicon guardsman called out, “We just… _burn_ here?!”

The Junior Allicon became frantic as the floor grew hotter by the klik. “We are not so far from the penitentiary!”

“ _How_ far?” The ranking Allicon demanded. “Can we make it by foot?”

The Allicon junior hesitated. “Not _us_ _,_ ” he said, but then looked towards the slaves huddled at the back of the carrier. Specifically, towards the two large Dynobots that stood huffing in the heat, their hulking, resentful forms menacing in the gloom. “ _They_ could make it and drag the transport carrier with them…”

The ranking Allicon scowled at the suggestion. “It would severely damage them. Such extensive repairs would incur additional costs–”

The junior Allicon stared at his commander in amazement. “But we _ourselves_ will die otherwise!”

“There are worse things than death,” the ranking Allicon snarled back.  “Better we die here then return to the Masters with empty hands!” His yellowed optics dilated, remembering a dark chamber and the dreadful cruelties inflicted within.

It said much when _fire_ seemed more merciful.

The other Allicons cowered. They all knew this truth. They need only look at his back and down his legs to see their futures transcribed in flayed, spoiled metal. The damage was impressive; the work of cruel smiles and small knives over many cycles. That this particular commander had even _survived_ the Imperial Asset Inquisitor’s (hallowed be thy tendrils) judgment was nothing short of amazing. Especially after such monumental failure… they were all cheap to produce and so easily replaced.

“We know their edicts. We know their judgment. We return to the Masters victorious or not at all.” The ranking Allicon spat out the last words. To his optics, _not at all_ seemed the most likely outcome.

“If we could recover the gestating assets... it would do much to sooth our Masters. Perhaps it is too early to contemplate defeat.” The Junior Allicon dared offer up hope with only the most hesitant of tones.

The ranking Allicon stood tall, considering that suggestion with care. He exuded powerful authority, but couldn’t help the faint tremor along his fingers. The heat was hardest on him for his dreadful injuries. He ground his sharp teeth for the pain while he stared at the Dynobots, calculating his options.

 _Fifty Cybertronians recovered_ was what he’d promised the Inquisitor.

 _Asset recovery,_ he’d begged them. _Put me on asset recovery! I will bring you one hundred times my own weight in recovered assets! None have more motivation then I! Let me prove myself worthy! Let me recover what I lost and leave this life in the black! Let me serve one last time!_

Those promises were the only words that had stilled the small knives. They knew his record. They had studied the spreadsheets that chronicled his impressive service. They had read every successful entry right up until the last… that one massive, inglorious failure. He knew how fortunate he was that they had allowed one last chance.

Second chances were unheard of.

Thankfully the blame for this current mess could be laid squarely at the tendrils of the Grand Assessor and his battle-commanders, now dead. The Inquisitors were sticklers for appropriately placed blame. It was what made them so effective; profit-thieving corruption could be ferreted out from the lowest desk worker to the highest Supreme Imperial Magistrate. All could be blamed. All feared judgment. As such, he still had a chance. He couldn't waste the opportunity to either redeem himself, or die outside their clutches.

_Fifty Cybertronians recovered._

This was the cost of his life, and these beast-mechs tallied towards that recovery count now. Not only that, but letting the slaves out was dangerous; they might flee and he needed them to help subdue the other Cybertronians. He would prefer they remain inside. However, if they were all going to die anyway…

“Prep them,” The ranking Allicon gestured at the Dynobots. It soothed his pain somewhat to see them both hunker down, too far away to hear the conversation, but so wary to be singled out.

_They still fear me._

“But make certain they understand what will happen to their comrade,” – he gestured at Bluestreak next and it was Blue’s turn to cower – “if they try to flee without us.”

 

* * *

 

Above the pandemonium, Uytis’ star was climbing into the sky. Waking for another burning hot day, the darkness was swiftly retreating. In the Courtyard and Commons, mechs slowed their attacks, struggling to function in the building heat and forced to squint for the brilliant light that made things harder to see.

At Megatron’s feet, Overlord’s frame was brightly lit under the returning light, the internal fluid on his frame already bubbling and steaming in the heat.

"Call for Hook," Overlord gasped at Megatron, his glyphs barely understandable. "I want repairs and fuel. Do it _now_."

Megatron merely scowled at his adversary. "Rest assured that if you harm Skywarp, your last moments will be spent purging your own internals. As such, I have a better plan. _Expire now_ , and we all forget you ever existed."

Overlord choked out a harsh laugh as Megatron noticed the advancing Underbite. Megatron pinned Underbite in place with a dangerous look. _You stay back, or I will tear you apart._

“Kill you if you move,” Overlord whispered wetly into the squirming Skywarp's audial, and he meant every word. His bargaining position seemed shaky at best. If he couldn't save himself, Skywarp was coming with him. He was desperate to get _some_ sort of vengeance on these mechs that dared ruin all his plans.

Underbite sank down into a trash drift like a stalking tiger, making a show of obedience. _Direct me as you will..._

Megatron realized the situation and a faint smile touched the corner of his lip plating. He offered Skywarp a reassuring look while he gestured with subtle fingers at Underbite. The hulking Chompazoid began to advance again, creeping forward while Overlord remained distracted.

Skywarp moaned for the cruel fingers scraping against his spark chamber. He’d fragged this up _so_ bad. Already too low from fooling around during the night, he’d been so pissed with TC that he’d acted without thinking. A short jump would have finished his energy stores but still left him functional… he’d intended to dump Overlord out in the Courtyard and then jet to the safety of the cavernous skies. Instead he'd transported too many at once by mistake. Now he was too low on spark energy to safely warp away. There was no way in hell he could take two either… so a triumphant death that took Overlord with him was out of the cards.

Even worse, Megatron hadn’t been kidding about the 'leave him to me' and 'I will crush him under my pede' statements over internal comms.

Forgive him if he’d been a little skeptical after their last fight. But all Skywarp had accomplished with his oh-so-heroic hissy fit was to unbalance Megatron and give Overlord something to hold out for. Unable to see the Chompazoid creeping up behind them, it seemed his only options were torturous death or possible death, and that really wasn't a choice.

Skywarp vanished with an agonizing _wharp_ , leaving a shocked Overlord to Megatron’s currently non-existent mercy.

Underbite rushed forward even as Mighty Megatron rocked Overlord back with a punishing blow. Rearing back, Underbite rasped the sharp corner of his beak up the back of Overlord's neck and clamped down with a sharp _clank_ at a particular spot, the razor-edge of his beak slipping between metal vertebrae connectors and then grinding down viciously. He couldn’t cut through Overlord’s coating, no, but he could most certainly pinch around it...

Megatron stepped back as Overlord's frame went ramrod straight in spasm and then fell entirely limp, his optics bulging. Now paralyzed from the neck down, Overlord’s optics rolled back as terminal shutdown warnings blared across his HUD.

Shouts and outright joyful-sounding cries burst all around them; _Overlord defeated? Overlord is down? Overlord is dead?!_

"He's done!" Underbite crowed triumphantly. "Unless he’s got a medical team stuffed up his tailpipe, he ain't coming back from a pinched off spinal cord."

Megatron staggered forward and prodded at the prone body with his pede. One terminal stasis lock later and Overlord’s optics went out. Megatron grinned in triumph, wiping at the internal fluid trickling from the corners of his intakes.

Underbite ground his beak, peering up at Megatron with a hopeful expression. "Can I eat him all nice and slow-like, if I promise to let you watch?"

 

* * *

 

“Almost there!” The junior Allicon shouted.

Watching from his position atop a melting grav-wheel, he could see the Dynobots galloping frantically across the landscape, tow cables taut around their frames. He even dared shout encouragement at them as they dragged the transport in their wake. The ride should have been bumpy but for the melting floor; the troops inside were climbing the walls to stay off it and spare their pedes.

“The beast Cybertronians are strong!" the junior Allicon shrieked in delight. "They will make it!”

 _No thanks to you,_ Bluestreak cringed inside. He ached to hear their grunts of pain. It sickened him that Sludge and Slag were suffering so that these Allicon could survive. He glowered hatefully at the nearest one, and then groaned when a pain-charge lanced through him.

The Allicon grunts hissed warning at him, _“_ _Don't even think of trying anything!”_

“Master,” one of the guardsmen said while dangling off a ceiling strut, his body swaying back and forth in the air, “We are all damaged and heat-struck for battle, and this prison appears hostile. Our last scan suggests hundreds of unique energy signatures. If I may suggest we deploy preemptive counter measures–”

 The ranking Allicon grunted. “The gas shells.”

“–meant to be shot from the cannons, but the outer weaponry is too damaged for use. But we can launch and trigger them manually _._ We need only reprogram the detonators to function as grenades instead of–”

“Don’t bother me with incidentals,” the ranking Allicon said while waving his thick hand dismissively. “Just make it happen.”

“As you command. But I must warn you that the gas won’t stop all species. The Cybertronians will be affected though and they are the worst. It will give us a fighting chance and plenty of time to chain them down.”

One of the Allicon soldiers called out, “How long until rescue after that?”

“ _Rescue_?” The ranking Allicon snorted. “This operation remains in effect. We will storm the prison and reclaim all assets. Once we are victorious, _then_ we will contact the rest of the fleet. We cannot return to the Masters empty-handed.”

The ranking Allicon – Megatron’s Allicon – gestured over his shoulder at his open, ruined back to grind in the point for the soldiery.  Grim satisfaction filled him when they seemed intimidated and muttered agreement amongst each other. Yes, victorious return would be for the best.

“Prepare the canisters for deployment–”

“We are approaching the prison entrance, but the lift platform that seals the prison is not responding to my transmissions! We will remain trapped outside!”

“We won’t survive out here,” the ranking Allicon said. “Order the slaves to break through it, and _brace yourselves_.”

 

* * *

 

Brilliant shafts of light, harsh and burning, lanced through the cavern from above. The central Courtyard was beginning to heat dangerously.

Scowling for the fighting that still raged around them, Megatron hid his exhaustion and straightened his back strut a micron. From the sound of internal comms blaring in his HUD, all of his soldiers were wounded, and starting to collapse on their pedes.

_This must end._

Megatron squinted and could see the housing was mostly moved, and the Junkion tech-mech was busy resetting it. At its new location, extended to its maximum, the energy shield would cover the old entrances and the unplanned new addition. But utterly exhausted for the long battle, no small numbers of trembling Junkions were beginning to slink away to hide.

Turning to his new-old soldier, Megatron pointed at his fallen adversary and said, “Dump Overlord into one of the cages and order Overlord’s wretches to retreat! It’s too damned hot for a decent battle. We can renew hostilities when the star goes back down.” Turning away, he reached down and lifted a decent-looking sword from a fallen alien for defense. Then he limped towards the trash-drift the carrying mechs had tumbled into. He was unwilling to lose Prime again.

“I’ll order a retreat,” Underbite called after him with a nervous grind of his beak, “But they know they’re fragged now. You got a combiner, and if they let you rest, they all gonna die and they know it. I don’t think they’re gonna listen–”

Megatron caught sight of the smaller carrying mech struggling to get a barely conscious Prime through the grating. With a hiss, he picked up his pace. Scowling back at Underbite, he snapped, “I will hear no excuses.”

Several rampaging aliens made the mistake of engaging him, and he cut them down with brutal blows. “Rest assured,” Megatron wiped his new blade off on one of their bodies, “When I am finished here there will be none but our people left alive.”

Dipping his head, Underbite stepped back to obey without another word.

Staggering forward as fast as he could manage, Megatron intercepted Prime and Sideswipe before they could slip away. Reaching down, he caught hold of Prime.

“No,” Megatron said, “You are with me,” and he hoisted a startled, blinking Prime up. Ignoring Sideswipe’s sharp clicks of disapproval, Megatron leaned down and slung Prime across his back plates. He coaxed Prime’s legs to circle, however weakly, around his hips. Prime’s helm settled into the crook of his shoulder and neck.

“Hold on to me,” Megatron murmured in Prime’s audial, “And I will see you both to safety. I will not be parted from you again.” Too exhausted to argue, Prime half-curled so his belly was off to the side and his arms wrapped awkwardly around Megatron’s neck. Megatron adjusted his weight on his pedes to keep his balance as Prime squirmed around until semi-comfortable.

Megatron gestured for a clicking, irritated Sideswipe to stay close even as Underbite leapt up onto a nearby trash pile and shouted orders for the alien gang to retreat. Having been warned, Megatron wasn't surprised when more than a few of the alien mechs refused.

Megatron stopped and set his pedes, brandishing his blade. Throwing his helm back, he shouted, “Wretched minions of Overlord! I have defeated your leader! You will retreat to the lower levels _immediately_ if you value your lives!”

One of the aliens howled back, “We are free! Kill the Cybertronians while they are weak! Kill them all before they kill us!”

Throngs of alien mechs rallied, and Megatron brandished his blade in reply. The few that dared attack him lost their lives to his blade, even with Optimus Prime grumbling confusion in his audial and Sideswipe directly underfoot. Megatron doggedly made up for his disadvantages with sheer brutality, and it wasn’t long before the floundering gang members found other targets to harry instead. The word was spreading; the Cybertronian leader had defeated Overlord, and now everyone wanted to stay out of his way.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Megatron began to head towards the Commons one slow, confident step after another.

Meanwhile Sideswipe lifted, pushed, and pulled on Prime. Though Megatron didn’t recognize Sideswipe, he could certainly respect his sheer persistence as ‘Sides tried to pull Prime off Megatron’s back strut.

“Throttle back,” Megatron said to the insistent carrying mech while simultaneously punching a charging alien head-over-heels. “You are both safer with me. Do you not see how our enemies avoid us? They fear me.”

Trotting alongside, Sideswipe was not impressed and couldn’t care less. Sideswipe wanted his Prime and he wasn’t leaving without him. Fearful and yet utterly fearless, he took hold of Prime, braced a pede against Megatron’s leg, and started yanking for all he was worth.

Frowning, Megatron threw out an arm and unbalanced the delicate, pestering carrying mech. _You are one of mine whether you understand that or not,_ and he tucked the startled body close as he walked. His strong engine rattled the smaller mech.

Glancing down at a squirming Sideswipe, Megatron didn’t like the way he was venting. The heat was becoming too much for both him and Prime. Swamping Sideswipe with his powerful electromagnetic field, Megatron tried to share his calm and his non-violent intentions as best he could. Then he let the smaller mech wiggle away from him.

But a few moments later and Sideswipe was back to tugging on Prime, optics contrary and unyielding. _Let him go! Give him back!_

But now Megatron was too distracted to pay attention. He scowled as he watched masses of equally exhausted alien mechs continue to throw themselves at the pitiful Junkion line. Howling sheer joy at the prospect of freedom from Overlord, they began redoubling their efforts on killing Megatron’s little group.

Or at least they intended to.

**_WHAM!_ **

Something big and Constructicon green smashed into the uppermost stairwell, rattling the Courtyard grating in a violent wave and sending everyone sprawling to the ground. Faces of all types rotated to see what fresh hell had arrived.

Devastator didn’t disappoint.

Massive and snarling, the combiner was a sight to behold as he bent the stairwell enough to force his unspeakably massive bulk through. Heftier then Bruticus and _much_ older, Devastator remained supreme among combiners, and fully lived up to his name.

Liberally splattered with the internal fluids of his enemies, his frame was a kaleidoscope of grim color. Massive body and arm brandished and threatening, that was bad enough. But even more alarming was his face, sporting bizarre facial features; he looked every bit as ghastly as fear should prompt. It was almost as if someone had rearranged a bare-aft carrying mech’s parts and stuck him atop a festive assortment of murder machines.

He’d single-handedly (literally!) cleared the lower levels of any alien mech possessing of a spine (and some that didn’t) and the survivors of his rampage were left huddling in corners and crevasses below, whimpering for their assembly line manuals.

Now Devastator stood looming, and in the strange quiet that reigned, some mech could be heard mumbling, “Somebody let me off this stupid ride,” and the momentary ceasefire broke.

“Devastator! You big ‘ol lug! Welcome to the party!”

Swindle threw his arms out wide, and then fell back onto his back plates with a _clunk_. He was far too light-helmed for the building heat and his injuries to stay upright. Vision swimming, he continued to cheer at the giant lime-green blob, even though his joyous greetings were immediately lost in the fresh bedlam.

…

 Devastator had to pause to admire the sheer chaos below, his Constructicon circuitry deeply moved by the sight of so much bloodshed. Then, with Prowl urging them onward, Devastator rose to his full height. His helm grazed the cavern ceiling as he stomped his way into the fray. Kicking out with a massive pede, he sent a group of gawking gang members careening through the air and smashing into a wall.

It was the last straw for most. No small numbers of them broke away and fled for the stairwells. A flat-faced Regulon shrieked after their retreating back plates, “Fight him you cowards! This is our only chance to save ourselves! We defeated the other giant–”

Devastator oriented on the high-pitched shriek and smashed his fist down in a satisfying _smoosh_. The force of his blow flattened the mech and added a fresh layer to Devastator’s blood-splattered plates. _I love breaking things,_ Mixmaster’s circuitry sighed as he give voice to the warm glow that destruction brought them all.

Then a familiar, commanding voice shouted up to him. “Devastator! Focus your efforts on clearing the Commons! Our people desperately need respite, and the energy shield is almost ready to be redeployed!”

“Megatron,” Devastator snarled back at the mech who dared roar orders at him. _Genocidal despot, murderous tyrant, psychopath…_

 _Our leader_ , Long Haul’s unhappy circuitry insisted. After everything they’d suffered, that phrase meant far more than it ever had to the Constructicons.

_No! Megatron is responsible! Punish him! Kill him!_

Through Devastator’s optics and with their combined processing power, Prowl inspected Megatron, tallied his injuries, calculated Devastator’s chances of finishing off the Slagmaker... and he liked the numbers his battle computer spat back at him _._ Devastator _did_ notice the mech strapped across Megatron’s back and the second mech that stared up at him in alarm, but he didn’t recognize them.

_Time to finish this!_

“You _hurt me_ ,” Prowl snarled through Devastator’s lips.

"Prowl," Megatron took a step back, surprised to be facing down yet another mistake so soon.  Oh _Primus_ he wasn’t ready for this conversation.

There was one little flicker of reassurance amidst his alarm. It came in the form of soft puffs of too-hot ventilations tickling his neck; Prime had grown comfortable enough nestled against Megatron’s back plates to drowse. He was relieved that Prime wasn’t capable of following the conversation, because he wasn’t ready for this. But Devastator seemed poised over the deep end, beyond torqued, and so he gathered himself and stepped forward to answer the accusation.

But what to say?

The accusation was damned true and Megatron knew it. He’d been the one to order the Constructicons to ambush Prowl in his flat. He was the one who had authorized Bombshell to inflict the cerebral shell on Prowl, and ordered Hook to surgically alter him. He was the one that ordered the Constructicons to force-merge with Prowl, a form of mind rape.

Megatron opened his mouth as sentiments that distanced him from the blame for his decisions flashed across his processor. Justifications always came easy; he'd had so much practice over the eons. Phrases like _the_ _future must be taken_ and _sacrifices must be made_ and _for the greater good_ and other ultimately feeble rationalizations. The words poised at the tip of his glossa, but he closed his mouth instead as in that moment a ghost-mech demanded his due.

_“It’s working!” Starscream had yelped at him, “Everything I’ve been campaigning for, it’s working.” Starscream’s bright optics looked up at him from the floor where his fist had sent the seeker tumbling. It was his standard response to his second’s insistent criticism of his endless and oh-so-glorious plans._

_In the cathedral of memory, those desperate eyes were so beautiful._

_Beautiful and unrepentant; this time his violence wasn’t enough to silence his second. Starscream just wouldn’t drop it. “Peace is possible between Autobots and Decepticons but for mechs like you. Don’t you see? You have become the problem!”_

Only kliks of time had passed, but it felt like hours and Megatron released a long hiss. It was undeniable, now that the haze of his own ego had been forcibly lifted from him. Whatever his intentions, the truth was that he’d taken dark roads, steered his people towards terrible places, made horrible mistakes, and his crass internal justifications up and died on him.

_You hurt me._

Megatron stood tall and re-considered his response. He worked his intakes, unsure of what to do, knowing in his spark nothing he could say could fix this. He took a step forward, about to try something…sincere...but Devastator wasn’t in the mood for mere words.

The part of Devastator that was Prowl desired an apology splayed in internal fluid, and had every intention of writing those glyphs himself. In that instant, the combiner found himself at a crossroads. Long Haul tried to get the others to step back from their leader, but Prowl struck back. He forced Devastator’s massive servo into a homicidal fist.

_Kill Megatron._

_Megatron leader!_

_Finish this now and forever._

_Need him now more than ever!_

_End the war._

_But the war is already over!_

Prowl didn’t care one whit. He wanted internal fluid, Megatron’s specifically, and no mere words would satisfy him.

Once again, Long Haul had to step up to a plate he didn’t want. With another polite apology he didn’t actually mean, Long Haul lashed out and struggled with Prowl for control of Devastator.  Prowl fought back and they mentally grappled.

Devastator clutched at his helm with an agonized roar. The disharmony activated safeties and Devastator was force-separated into his component pieces.

As they tumbled down into their solitary forms, a clatter sounded from the grating. Sand and grit bounced off of slats as, unnoticed, debris began to rain down across the Courtyard from high above.

Megatron huffed in quiet relief as the confrontation seemed to end early. He really hadn't wanted to bare his spark in front of an audience, though he knew he deserved the humiliation.

"Long Haul?" Megatron called out while tightening his possessive grip on Prime. He stepped forward with caution, even as he finally noticed all the dust and debris raining from the massive ceiling above.

_Curious._

“Sorry about that,” Long Haul coughed, clearing his intakes. “Difference of opinion messed up the gestalt link.” He wiped at his optics and then glanced over at his team, seeing Mixmaster already petting at Prowl while the others staggered to their pedes.

Megatron offered him a servo up, “Understandable, considering past history. But now is not the time for reparations. Not until our people are safe and we have neutralized all dire threats.” He stared upwards as he spoke, concerned for the increasing rubble-fall. Clouds of dust roiled through the air, along with pings from minor impacts as pebbles bounced off the grating and even their battered frames.

Had Devastator damaged the cavern's ceiling?

Wreck-Gar dropped down next to Megatron and Long Haul from above. “Ready to pull in my shoestrings,” he said, beyond tired, but the energy shield module remained tucked under his arm. All that effort and now it seemed they wouldn't even need it...

Then Wreck-Gar’s optics flew wide as he recognized his darling Lucy. She was lying across Megatron’s back plates, drowsing while one of her friends tugged at her. He felt a rush of appreciation towards his co-leader for his kindness. He babbled gratitude. Lilting happy-happy-joy-joy jangles, he stepped forward, intending to take dear Lucy into his arms. She looked worn to a frazzle!

But Megatron grunted at him, seeming confused for his approach. Stepping back, he ordered Wreck-Gar to stand down.

 _Clunk! Clunk!_ ...more dust, more rubble, more debris. And was that part of the _lift_?

Meanwhile, the alien mechs had regrouped and were standing in masses around the Courtyard. Some of them were even creeping back up from the stairwells in a show of force.

But all attacks had ceased.

Then a hulking Rydraxan startled Megatron with a call for parlay. "Megatron! Cybertronian leader! I would speak with you!" As a reasonable being, the Rydraxan's voice held actual weight with the gang. Now that Overlord seemed done for, anyway.

A couple of larger rocks tumbled down next, and Megatron peered upwards. Frowning, he couldn’t see anything past the far distant lift platform, flush to the surface and protecting them from the worst of the heat.

_Clunck!_

_Hm_ , now that was _definitely_ part of the lift.

"Something's happening up there!" some mech yelled. "Quiet," another mech hushed him. "They are working out a ceasefire. The giant must have broken the lift."

_First things first._

Megatron and Long Haul turned towards the Rydraxan while Hook lifted a glowering Prowl. “This little tiff must be settled before we combine again,” Hook grunted warning at Long Haul.

Prowl opened his intakes with a furious hiss, but couldn’t form the words he needed to use against them. He clenched a bare fist, and then reached out for Mixmaster instead. Mix’s optics flew wide with delight for the show of preference, but Hook, scowling, wouldn’t relinquish his hold on Prowl.

“I _did_ say I was sorry,” Hook mumbled into Prowl’s audial as he jogged towards the Bailiwick. “I had no idea that you were… _you_.” Hook didn't notice the blue-eyed shadow that followed after him from below, the keen gaze fixated on Prowl.

"You have my attention. Speak your peace," Megatron growled out to the Rydraxan. Realizing the alien gang was watching him, Megatron reluctantly handed Prime to Long Haul. A demonstration of power may be necessary to intimidate the enemy. He knew he needed his full range of motion for that.

Stepping forward, sword still in hand, Megatron strode towards the Rydraxan while doing his _damnedest_ not to stagger.

Long Haul stared down at his unhappy armful of Prime, unsure what to do. Then Wreck-Gar offered and Long Haul handed Prime over with a relieved look. The Junkion leader pulled dear, confused Lucy to his chest, happier then he'd been in some time. He rubbed loving strokes along her back, though she reared back for the touch and didn’t seem to recognize him.

Long Haul shook his helm. "Gather the wounded and get them to the med-station.” He watched as Scavenger and Mixmaster left to obey. Around them, the hot air currents were changing, and victory of a sort seemed imminent.

_Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! ...Plunk!_

Among the falling debris was a strange canister, which rolled a ways and then rattled to a stop. There was a blinking light at the top that was slowly increasing in tempo. Unfortunately no one noticed, far too focused on the two leaders talking in the middle of the Courtyard. Tensions were running high, but it seemed everyone was ready for the fighting to end. After a few last words, Megatron strode away and the Rydraxan called for his brothers to head down below.

Ceasefire achieved...for now.

 _They will regret this_ , Megatron thought to himself with satisfaction. As soon as he and the Combaticons and Constructicons recovered enough for combat, _oh how they will regret this. There is only room for **my** people here._

“Come,” Megatron said as he stood and threw his servos out in a grand gesture. “We have won a great victory today. Rejoice! The blood of our enemies lay beneath our pedes, and sanity returns to our functioning at last. We will restore the energy shield for a good day’s rest and tend to our wounded brothers.”

A weak cheer for his speech sounded across the Commons. Even some of the alien mechs joined in, so happy the fighting was over.

_Tink! tink! tink!_

Familiar sounds of punching had started up in the meantime and Megatron grinned. Almost too tired to process, he turned toward Long Haul to reclaim what sounded to be a _most_ irritated Optimus Prime.

Then Megatron scowled, realizing that Long Haul's servos were empty. Long Haul instantly pointed over at Wreck-Gar with an innocent look, "He offered, so-"

Meanwhile "Lucy" was punching a very contrite Wreck-Gar, who was murmuring endless apologies -“should have listened, I know, you were right, love, right about everything, so sorry, so sorry for everything, everything”- but he still refused to let her down, even as "Lucy" pelted him with stern warning clicks. It wasn't difficult to glean her meaning: punches would continue until freedom was obtained.

Sideswipe was Lucy's wing-mech, trying to pry her out of Wreck-Gar's hands. But every time he drew close enough, Wreck-Gar reached out and tickled his bare mesh, and he was forced to wiggle away. His furious clicks added to the growing cacophony. Taking in the scene, Megatron's engine revved with irritation as a certain piece of a confusing puzzle fell into place.  

"This is not Lucy. That is not his name. You are badly mistaken. Now give him to me," Megatron demanded as he reached to take Prime back. His blood-stained sword rose in threat when Wreck-Gar only tightened his grip.

Wreck-Gar stepped back with a warning look. " _Oy now_ … you rescuing my poor Lucy, there's a good thing, but now you being _too_ friendly-"

_Plunk! Plunk! Plunk!_

Long Haul yelped when a rock bounced off his helm and a fallen canister rolled by his pedes. The sound of hollow, metal containers raining down from above finally caught everyone’s attention.

"Long Haul," Megatron said while taking a wary step back, "Are those not _Quintesson_ symbols?" He pointed at one of the many cylindrical devices with his sword while knocking it away from them. A horrible suspicion darkened his processor.

In the time it took Long Haul to admit he didn't know, Megatron had already answered his own question. He was whirling towards Wreck-Gar to grab Prime when the canisters went off.

Pffffssssssssssst! Yellowish gas began to hiss out from the canisters, and mechs stumbled back in surprise.

Megatron snatched Prime out of Wreck-Gar's shocked servos, scooped up Sideswipe and bolted. “Retreat back to the caves!” Megatron roared back over his shoulder as he staggered at the highest rate of speed he could manage. "Hurry you fools!"

Long Haul and Wreck-Gar followed his example, already feeling faint for whatever gas was filling the air.

Ahead of them, Megatron was already starting to falter.

…

 “Some kind of chemical weapon out here,” Pipes coughed into his comms for Onslaught. “Slag’s everywhere.” He stuffed rags into his intakes and all of his vents, a trick he'd learned from Jazz a long time ago. Then Pipes yelled for everyone to retreat as the thick clouds of yellowish gas continued to roil out from the canisters.

Long Haul staggered past and into the Bailiwick, collapsing not far from the entrance. He'd inhaled a heavy dose, and he was already unconscious for it. Scavenger and Mixmaster grabbed him and started pulling him deeper into the cave.

 Other mechs shouted warning as something massive began to fall from high above; they could hear it as it began crashing down. Tumbling end over end, the remains of the lift and a _massive_ , half-smelted vehicle crashed down in an avalanche of slag.

The transport vehicle rolled for a few rotations after. Every mech who could rushed out of the way, with Underbite darting to the side just in time to avoid being crushed. Not far behind fell two battered frames, lashed to the vehicle with thick tow cables.

The half-smelted military vehicle lay where it had fallen, smoking and bubbling. Underbite fled to a clearer spot and turned to stare. Today was not going to plan for anyone anymore, and his thick plating flared with worry. He didn’t recognize the massive vehicle, half smelted and boiling and spitting heat. Nor the two massive, hulking beast mechs that tumbled down after it, chained to it as beasts of burden.

But Pipes did.

“Prox-alarm wasn’t a malfunction,” Pipes whispered to himself in shock. He stumbled forward as he recognized the two mechs still tied to the vehicle. Sludge and Slag were in Dynobot mode, and both were in a bad way.

Pipes could tell they weren’t going to be saving themselves, but he stumbled back when the soldiery inside the half-smelted transport began to batter their way out. He recognized the emerging species with a hiss of amazement and horror.

“Snarl!” Pipes shrieked. “ _The Quints are here_!”

…

 Re-emerging from the Bailiwick, the flight-enabled Lithonian caught sight of Underbite standing nearby. He was staring at the new arrivals struggling to get out of their ruined vehicle. The Lithonian hesitated as clouds of gas continued to billow out from canisters all around the Courtyard. The chemical brew was starting to fill the air, growing more potent by the astro-second.

Underbite pulled in a beak-full of gas by accident, and fell back with a _RAWRK!_

“The Maulers send new prisoners in military vehicles now?” the flight-enabled Lithonian called out to Underbite, confused. He fell silent when he saw how violently Underbite began to shudder in reaction. The Chompazoid was growing unsteady on his pedes. Several species of aliens reacted strongly to the vile clouds, while some seemed only mildly affected. The rest stood back and stared, confused.

Ion Storm stumbled past, going the wrong way. He was heading towards where he had spotted Megatron collapse. He staggered through the mess, intent on the small form huddling into the ground, heedless of the danger.

Even the Bailiwick wasn’t far enough away. The billowing gases followed relentlessly, filling every corner, and affected mechs began dropping almost immediately.

“Pipes,” Megatron choked out from across the Courtyard, “Get that shield up _now_!” He collapsed a moment later, optics rolling back and frame going lax.

Wreck-Gar saw Pipes wave frantically at him.

“Go long!” The panicky mech shrieked, and Wreck-Gar knew _that_ reference, and threw the module across the Courtyard as Pipes leapt for it. Stupid, beyond stupid to throw such a delicate piece of machinery, if Pipes missed the results would have been dreadful… but thank Primus he caught it.

Wreck-Gar stumbled towards Lucy then, doing everything in his power to avoid venting in the fumes, though his own internal fans worked against him. Feeling faint, he pulled Lucy away from Megatron and hefted her, stumbling towards the Bailiwick. She lay quiet in his arms now. Still venting, but otherwise not moving. Wreck-Gar tucked her close to his chest plates and realized he wasn't going to make it. He surrendered to the force that pulled him downward, but not before he dug a furrow in the trash and covered her body with his own.

Staggering past them, Ion Storm was holding a relaxed ‘Sides, and he too collapsed not far after.

“I’m so sorry,” Pipes cried out to them as he jammed the energy module back into the housing. The much-abused device awoke with a _whir_ and then roared back to life. With its can-do attitude, the device promptly enclosed the Bailiwick in its entirety.

“We bring good things to life!" One of the gasping junk-piles cackled in jubilation as the energy shield ended the attack for those safe inside. Then he collapsed face down, overcome by the fumes.

…

A small contingent of Allicon troopers joined the fight as soon as they clambered out of the transport. The alien mechs still in the Courtyard had no choice but to defend themselves. But there was one critical difference between them and the new arrivals.

Bluestreak, shaking for the heat and still under full control, took aim with his Quintesson-issued rifle. Sitting on top of the vehicle, he pulled the trigger, firing again and again, and alien mechs fell before him. The other Allicon troopers followed suit.

Blaster fire made all the difference.

What had taken the Cybertronians all night to accomplish took the Quintesson less than ten astro-seconds. Their blasts lit up the smoky air in flashes of light.

Nearby, Underbite had collapsed onto his belly for the gas, and given up on himself with a miserable whine. Underbite the slave; it had _such_ a terrible ring to it. First Overlord's play toy, now soon to be the Quintesson's play toy.

 _Frag_ his stupid _life_. 

Fortunately for him, the flight-enabled Lithonian was immune to the gas. Realizing the Allicons were too much trouble to deal with, he did the smart thing and began creeping away. Stumbling over Underbite, he shook his helm and then began dragging his not-friend down the stairwells. Around him, the surviving gang members were busy resurrecting as much of the lower level barricades as possible.

Oh how the mighty have fallen...

“What is happening?” Underbite slurred, realizing he was being moved but unable to command his limbs himself.

The Lithonian dragged him down the last set of stairs, towards the lower level cave before he bothered to answer. “No full understanding of situation,” he admitted, “but perhaps from the downed ship we thought destroyed. Fortunes permitting, the Quintesson soldiery will kill the undesirables and then perish from the heat. They look… unwell.”

Underbite huffed in amusement and relief. Well didn’t that beat all. He relaxed a little while being dragged to relative safety. “Now wouldn’t that be nice.” The gasping glyphs almost sounded a prayer to the Lithonian, who could only agree.

…

<Swindle! Where are you?> Onslaught sounded uncharacteristically frantic. <I am getting sick of you not following orders!>

In the background the other Combaticons were finishing off the last few gang members trapped on their side of the energy shield.

Finally the last enemy perished, and Cybertronians all up and down the Bailiwick collapsed where they stood. Everyone was at the end of their strength, but Onslaught was missing a jeep. As such, he couldn’t collapse face down into the trash like Vortex just did, at least not until his team was safe. He stumbled towards the Bailiwick entrance, barely thinking for the gas that was growing stronger by the klik.

Brawl staggered after him, groaning at him to stop. “Can’t go out there.”

“Swindle’s in the Commons,” Onslaught coughed back. “He’s right outside.”

“No,” Brawl said, “No... _ughh_ ...he ain’t. I already checked earlier.”

Still on his back some distance away, Swindle finally processed his squad leader’s voice. Another few kliks to mentally work out what Onslaught wanted. Then Swindle finally gasped out a punch-drunk, cheery reply. <In deep slag, boss-mech!>

<Swindle! Ping me your coordinates, I’m on route!>

Swindle flinched. No one was going to be saving him, not today, anyway. But he obediently pinged his coordinates while the Allicon dragged him ever deeper into the cave they seemed to be claiming for their own.

Swindle was oddly touched to hear Onslaught start cursing violently in his HUD, even as the Allicon grumbled for how heavy he was. He was torquing everyone off tonight, seemed like. He started to try and whistle, but ended up spitting air past his lips instead and he giggled to himself. The Allicon ignored his noises and dragged him past Overlord's chambers, and deeper beyond. They dragged him into one of the oldest caves, narrow and lined on both sides with rusty cages.

Dumping him in one, the Allicon tied it shut with cords and shuffled away.

Swindle blinked, seeing them also binding and caging Megatron, Ion Storm, Sunstreaker, Wreck-Gar, two carrying mechs and a whole host of captured Junkions.

And Overlord.

Swindle squinted at that, surprised to see a host of Quints working over him. They were trying to stabilize him for some reason, though he wasn’t responding well to their attempts to help him. Rigging up a small device to keep his spark fueled, his expression relaxed a little. But there was nothing they could do for his ruined fuel lines and his damaged spinal cord. Megatron had all but finished him, and he was well and truly slagged.

 _Bad plan,_ Swindle thought at them, but he was fading fast.

His thoughts slipped through his circuits like fist-fulls of sand and he couldn’t hold on to them for long. Sucking in a deep, cooling in-vent along with another dose of gas, Swindle finally drifted off to unconsciousness, serenaded to sleep by the harsh sounds of Onslaught’s slowly dwindling curses.

…

 Brawl staggered towards Onslaught as his leader faltered and collapsed. He could tell Onslaught was done, because his leader couldn’t keep up his steady stream of curses anymore.

“Son..a..gli..tch…fr..a.ggin…af..t…li..ck..er..goin…ki..ll……….”

Pulling the collapsed Onslaught deeper into the Bailiwick and away from the grating for safety sapped the last of Brawl’s waning strength. Settling down, he was just about to surrender to unconsciousness when above him, there was an ominous rattling and scrabbling sound. The sound of a hidden mech also succumbing to the fumes.

The Rat dropped down atop them and rolled sideways, legs kicking in hapless dismay. His limbs had stopped responding to his frantic commands.

Feeling faint, Brawl gasped and pointed with a high-pitched squeak, “Get ‘em! Somebody get em! If he wakes up before us-”

Brawl fell to his knees as, thank Primus, Thrust heard his cry. Staggering toward the Rat, Thrust forced himself to move, even as he lost all feeling in his struts. Managing to stuff the greasy mech into a small cage, Thrust locked it closed before stumbling back. Falling flat on his back plates, wings twitching and intakes gaping, Thrust succumbed to the gas a moment later.

“Deal with you later,” Brawl whispered, a hate-filled promise directed towards the unconscious beast-former. He huffed and coughed, curling down onto his side with a groan as he gradually lost the last of his control over his limbs.

Oh how he hurt, wounds everywhere, but Brawl knew he would live.

Laying on his side, his view of the Courtyard through the Bailiwick’s collapsed wall was growing fuzzy.  But he was deeply comforted to see the energy shield glowing in the distance. He could even see one of the Allicons glaring past it, scowling longingly after the protected mechs inside.

Brawl’s last act before falling unconscious was to flick an obscene gesture at the Allicon in the distance. The impotent slaver scowled back, his pain stick glowing in his disappointed fist.

...

"Hey buddy," Pipes whispered to the trembling junk-techie curled up in a ball near the energy generator. "I need a favor, okay?"

The junk-pile nodded, watching as Pipes stuffed even more rags into his vents. Pipes was still functional to a degree, though feeling fainter as the astro-seconds passed. But Sludge and Slag were still within reach. He had to do something. At his prompting, the junk-pile dropped the energy shield for a moment, and Pipes slipped through.

The gas made the air hazy and Pipes used that to his advantage as he hurried towards Sludge and Slag. He could tell they were too injured to do anything but lay where they had fallen.

Pipes nearly made it to them when he caught unwanted attention. “You!” an Allicon roared at him, waving a pain stick like no one’s business.

Pipes hit the floor and did the only thing he could think of to keep from being shot. “The glorious masters have come to save us!” he bowed and wailed, lying through his denta at the top of his vocalizer. “Please master! Forgive me! Please let me serve you! Let me make amends!”

Just inside the Bailiwick entrance, Sunstreaker was still lying across Breakdown’s graying frame. His helm nestled in the crook between throat and shoulder, Sunny was lying in a drying puddle of their mingled internal fluid. Optics distant, he stared out towards the Courtyard with a blank expression. He was over-heated and his spark felt dull and sick within him.

But Pipes' frantic cries roused him from his stupor. He staggered to his pedes, no longer able to put up much of a fight, but too hurt inside to realize it. So with the junk-techie on watch, Sunny was soon heading towards the screams.

Not noticing the front-liner limping towards him, the Allicon confronting Pipes looked very pleased for the begging. Mollified, he was stepping towards Pipes to examine him when Sunstreaker arrived. Snatching the Allicon's blaster from its holster, Sunny shot him dead with it.

Sunstreaker looked over at Sludge and Slag, and shook his helm. "You'll never… make it. Not… without help. Go on… help them. I will… distract… the Quints."

Pipes flinched, because Sunstreaker didn’t look like he should be distracting anybody right now. He looked like he needed a medic, a bath, and a whole lot of lemon juice. "But what about you-"

Sunstreaker drew himself up haughtily. "I can… take care of… myself. This is… _happening_... so… get moving."

Sunny turned and started stumbling towards the Quints. Taking careful aim, he starting picking them off with his stolen blaster. He was already spent and growing weaker the longer he was out in the Commons. The gas ensured he wasn't going to put up any sort of fight, but pulling a trigger... _that_ he could still do.

For now, at least.

Taking advantage of the distraction as he must, Pipes threw himself back towards the fallen Dynobots. Already feeling faint for the gas, he started cutting through their cables. Then he wrapped the cables around himself and transformed into truck mode and began dragging them towards the safety of the Bailiwick.

No time for niceties or gentle handling, and Pipes gunned his engine like there was no tomorrow. Dragging Slag and Sludge behind him, he aimed for the Bailiwick opening as the Allicon dropped Sunstreaker behind him. He could hear their gravely voices shouting at him to stop.

_Oh hell no._

Dropping the energy shield for him for a briefest moment, the Junkion techie re-initiated it the instant Pipes and the Dynobots slid home to safety.

"Sunstreaker?" Pipes called out over the ghost town that was internal coms. It was now completely silent; he was the last mech awake. There was no reply from anyone, and he couldn't see Sunstreaker anymore. There was nothing more he could do. Succumbing to the effects of the gas, Pipes crawled next to Sludge and curled up against his side.

A moment later Pipes' frame relaxed as he drifted away.

…

Uytis' star continued on his path overhead. Far below, the sunken prison he ruled with an iron fist remained deathly quiet, as most of the Cybertronians had shifted from a forced unconsciousness to a less forced, but badly needed recharge.

Down in one of the deepest caves, surrounded by darkness, one of them was particularly in need of rest. But jarring noise all around him prodded him towards consciousness.

Optimus struggled to wake, but could only make it halfway. The gas had kept him offline for the worst of the day. It made handling him simple enough for the weakened Allicon. After that, the chemical concoction kept most of his higher neocortex offline, leaving functional only a beast's understanding for a few hours.

The gas should have left him docile and easy to deal with as it cycled with agonizing slowness out of his system. Recently developed and tested by the lowest contractual bidder, it _did_ work exactly as intended.

The problem was that his normal instincts were augmented by Predacon coding. As such, some of his new instincts were _much_ stronger than they should ever be. Predacons were not the friendliest of creatures, either. Left to rule for the time being, the beast coding meant he was far more functional then the Allicon were planning for.

Opening his optics, Optimus could sense there were other mechs in the cages all around him. He could hear their unhappy noises, but with his blurry vision he couldn't make them out in the darkness. Flashes of biolighting and optic shine only added to his confusion.

Their movements and noise filled the air around him; lilting and sing-song tones he found vaguely familiar. Not affected as badly by the gas, they chattered amongst themselves. They were already functional _,_ fully awake and so very confused. They were testing their bonds, rattling their cages, doing what they could to try and escape.

Huffing in irritation, Optimus didn’t like all the noise. He _especially_ didn’t like the cords that kept his arms restrained behind his back. He squirmed in his bindings, adding his unhappy clicks to the din. More than anything right now, he wanted to find somewhere quiet to escape to.

But far more alarming was the mech in the same cage with him, who reacted to his cries. He’d already been wary of this one; he’d encountered him before.

Somewhere.

Then Optimus jolted when servos grabbed him, when arms wrapped around him. He couldn’t feel any emotions or intentions, as the grabber lacked electromagnetic fields.  He couldn’t understand him in the slightest and there was a strong sense of _not my kind_ about him. Even worse, he smelled wrong. He smelled _wrong_ and he would not stop touching Optimus.

Optimus the Predacon was _not happy_.

Squirming, he did everything in his toolkit of instinctual responses to explain all this to his tormentor. He struggled, he writhed, he bit him, he kicked him, he bit him some more, all the while vocalizing his displeasure in every way he knew how.

It didn’t help.

The mech only lilted and trilled at him, alien noises that made no sense to him, alien smells that repelled him. Without the assurance of an electromagnetic field, without scent markers to explain intention, Optimus refused to calm down.  Things escalated when the mech tried to hold him, when he didn’t want to be held.

That struggle ended with him being held _down_.

The conflict escalated further when the attacker plunged his fingers into sensitive areas. They curled around the painful, miserable connective device in Optimus’ valve.

A Junkion’s fingers were amazing things, made up of all sorts of interesting and useful little tools. Adept at finding use for even the most debilitated piece of garbage, Junkions were _especially_ good at taking things apart.

Optimus couldn’t understand this. To him, the way the Junkion's fingers moved inside him was painful and terrifying. The apparatus was already loosening for the Junkion’s assault on it, but the sharp edges _hurt_.

The sing-song tones continued, attempts at soothing noise, but Optimus was anything but soothed.

Coding fear surged when he couldn’t fight the other mech off. He started vocalizing then, unable to express his terror any other way.  Especially since he couldn’t escape. Especially since nothing he did stopped the mech from -to his limited understanding of what was happening- _hurting_ him.

…

 _One of the carrying mechs is screaming,_ the Junior Allicon realized, waking from a weak doze. The Cybertronians should still be under the influence of the gas, should still be docile for many hours yet. But he could hear screaming and worse yet, snarling and the rattling of cages.

Struggling to his feet, the junior Allicon considered asking for help. But currently his contemporaries were all unconscious. Not asleep… actually unconscious from the heat. Apparently the air conditioning unit was dying; the temperature was only a few degrees below lethal for the Allicon.

He was the youngest among them, with the heartiest constitution. But even he was having trouble. Extended movement and violent motions of any kind were very unwise. They were amidst the hottest part of the day cycle, and even in the deepest dark of this cave, it was just too hot.

The only thing they had going for them right now was the titan-steel gate and cuffs they had used to seal themselves into this cave. But their plans were already falling apart. This prison had been gutted by the inmates, nothing worked, and there were no fuel stores. Worst of all, the communication system looked like it had been torn apart and reassembled by feces-slinging cyber-monkeys. It was completely inoperable.

As such, things… were not going well.

They _had_ recovered a few Cybertronians, but lost two favorites in the process. Most of the Cybertronians had escaped to a protected area under a shield generator. That was bad enough, but worse was that the Allicon were getting low on energy for their weapons.

The junior Allicon lifted a pain stick instead of the blaster he knew he should be using. _A pain stick should be enough_ , he decided. He turned on his control panel, before remembering these Cybertronians had removed their collars. Control panels were useless here.

_Gah._

The screaming was intensifying and the junior Allicon hurried down the narrow corridor towards the cages.

It seemed the larger carrying mech of the two they had captured (thank the Blessed Spreadsheets they were still alive to recapture!) was being tormented by one of the Junkions he was housed with.

The Junior Allicon saw what the Junkion was up to and hissed in fury. Using specialized fingers, he was removing the support apparatus from the carrying mech’s gestation port.

Those were expensive!

The carrying mech was on his back with the Junkion’s heavy legs holding him down. Wildly unhappy with this treatment, he was making all sorts of disturbing noise. His shrieks were riling up several of the other Cybertronians, who, unlike the Junkions, were still affected by the gas. They were attacking the cage doors, seeming heedless of the restraints tied around them. The junior Allicon stared at them with a growing sense of fear. The black and purple one looked especially vicious. The blue-winged one across from him was not far behind in the alarming category.

Forcing himself to focus, the junior Allicon stabbed the Junkion with his pain stick, snarling at him to back off.

It didn’t work.

“You stay away from my Lucy,” the Junkion hissed, and the look in his optics was not reassuring.

The Junior Allicon realized he’d have to remove the carrying mech from the cell if he wanted any peace. So he thumbed up his pain stick to the highest setting and stabbed the Junkion with it. The shock sent the unruly mech tumbling back with a howl of pain.

The Junior Allicon hauled the confused, struggling carrying mech out of his cell. Dumping him on the floor, the Allicon turned and locked the cell door an instant later. It shut just in time, with the enraged Junkion bouncing off it with a _clang_ and a curse.

After threatening the howling Junkion with his pain stick, the Allicon then turned away from him. The stripped Cybertronian was securely bound, so the Allicon felt safe enough to handle him.

Bracing a foot against the protruding belly, the Allicon knelt down and poked at the device. The carrying mech yelped when the Allicon hooked a finger around the valve-rim and tugged on it. Peering down, the Allicon could see the apparatus was severely damaged... wrecked and half disassembled, thanks to that damned Junkion!  

“You,” the Allicon brandished his weapon at the offending Junkion, “Will pay for this! Damaging property is a serious offense!”

The Junkion, staring at the foot pressing down on Lucy’s rounded belly, merely spat in his face. The junior Allicon stumbled back in shock for the disrespect. He stabbed the Junkion a few more times with his pain stick, though respect remained elusive.

Meanwhile, the large, dark Cybertronian was still attacking his cage, trying to reach the carrying mech sprawled over the floor. It was an odd scene, how his violent movements were offset by his crooning at the carrying mech. He’d recognized his mate by scent, by the panicked sound of his voice, then by sight when the Allicon pulled him further down into the passageway, away from the offending Junkion.

Directly into view.

Staring at the otherwise raging mech behind him, it was obvious to the Allicon that the large, dark Cybertronian was trying to coax the carrying mech towards him. He was further surprised when the carrying mech seemed to recognize the noise.

“Stay still,” the junior Allicon ordered the writhing carrying mech, grabbing hold of the apparatus. “I must remove this or you may be damaged.”

Irritated by the threatening growl, he stuck out with his pain stick and stabbed the dark Cybertronian with it. The mech stumbled with a snarl, but then surged right back. The effect was not what the junior Allicon was hoping for.

The sheer hate burning out of those optics!

At the Allicon's feet, the carrying mech was struggling to roll over and away. Reaching out with a bare pede, he started trying to push away the Allicon messing with his valve.

“I don’t care if you live or die,” the Allicon said to him in warning. “But the Commander says we need you-” He yelped in surprise when, while pulling the apparatus free, the carrying mech curled around and kicked him.

“I will not tolerate such disrespect!” The junior Allicon screeched. _All these wretches have forgotten how to be respectful!_

The junior Allicon was too furious to think straight. He grabbed and shook the carrying mech until he was vocalizing again, the low notes rising from fearful anger to sheer terror. Then the carrying mech _head-butted_ him.

Right in his _face!_

Now beyond furious, he tapped the carrying mech with his pain stick, right on his gestational port. Not enough to cause damage, but definitely a memorable experience.

The resulting howl of pain and shock satisfied him. "Now you will have some respect," The junior Allicon said as he straightened with a pleased grunt, even as a ruckus behind him prompted a glance over his shoulder.

Oh yes. Right.

The cages were rusty and _not made of titan-steel_.

_“The Cybertronians can get through them if lacking sufficient motivation to remain inside,” the ranking Allicon had warned him not hours ago. “You must make them understand that leaving their cages is the worst possible offense. Punishment must be swift and brutal, and don’t hesitate to stun-shoot them if needed.”_

_The ranking Allicon had scowled. “Especially that one. He was my old war-mech. Make sure to bind him with everything we have. He cannot escape; it would please him to kill us all.”_

The junior Allicon stared in shock at the missing cage door; the ranking Allicon’s war-mech had kicked it off its hinges.

Now the fiend was a mere hands-breadth away from him. Still bound with his hands behind his back, yes, but that just meant all he had to work with was his razor sharp denta. The look in his glowing red optics more suited a vicious beast prowling in some primordial Cybertronian jungle then splayed across the face plates of what should be a sapient being.

 _I should have brought the gun_ , was his last coherent thought.

…

Bloody wiring and torn neck cables filled his mouth… and it pleased him. A quick search and he’d found what he was looking for; darkness resembling a cave, nesting materials a few feet deep along the ground, and the faintest trace of air movement for ventilation.

The side-tunnel near the cages had been dug ages ago by inmates wanting an escape tunnel that adjoined the main cave. They'd been thwarted when they’d dug down only to encounter grating instead of the lower levels.

Currently, Megatron had no concept of such things as dashed plans and ruined schemes. If he had, he would have torn down the main passageway to the far end of the cave and finished the Allicon where they lay gasping for breath. But right now his guardian instincts ruled, and that meant his focus was ferrying his injured mate to safety.

It was a hell of a task with his arms tightly bound behind him and hobbles around his pedes, but Megatron was nothing if not persistent. He managed by working his bulk underneath his squirming mate and hefted him that way, stalking low along the ground for balance. He found a likely spot in the far end of the tunnel, and knelt and rolled, settling his unhappy mate into the dreck. Then he used his body to swiftly burrow into the nesting materials, furrowing them into a pleasing shape.

Once he was satisfied, Megatron then regathered and deposited his wildly unhappy mate into their new nest. He sank down into the nest a moment later and felt pleased with himself. Allicon blood trickled down his neck from his mouth and his plating flared for satisfaction; his enemy was dead and his mate was safe. He then stole a few moments to tend to his own sorry state.

The bindings around his fore-limbs were tight and miserable. Huffing in irritation, he struggled to free them, but they were too securely bound. Alas, he couldn’t reach his bindings with his teeth.

_So irritating._

His mate, meanwhile, was curled on his side and still vocalizing. Something had truly upset him, and he refused to calm. His cries were galvanizing, and it was the worst of an entire host of problems that needed addressed.

Nudging his mate over onto his back, Megatron carefully settled himself over the struggling body. There were lots of rejection noises coming from the smaller mech, but he nuzzled his mate for many long moments until he settled a little.

Oh there was still plenty of unhappiness, clicks and chirps and grumbles aplenty, but the pain and anger tones lessened as Megatron's engine rumbled reassurance. His electromagnetic fields caressed the other, assuring of good intentions, and a short war of the fields ensued ... the sire’s sense of _everything is fine_ verses the carrier’s insistence of _so_ _very upset_ shoved back and forth. 

But finally the carrier settled down, especially as Megatron’s heavy scent began to fill the nest.

The mouthful he’d taken of his prey was still in his intakes, and he'd resisted the urge to chew and swallow. His patience was rewarded when his mate finally calmed, and then sniffed at him. He offered the mouthful, immensely pleased when his mate licked at his intakes and then accepted his gift.

Unknown to Megatron, that tentative exchange, mouths meeting, licking and nibbling, the sweet metallic taste of blood, chewing and swallowing and belly feeling better was the moment that Optimus’ own beast coding ticked over from enemy to possible mate.

_Enemies don’t provide._

_  
_

("Enemies Don't Provide" - artwork by Tunagriff)

 

Megatron was just happy when all the unhappy clicking stopped. Mouth now free, Megatron licked his own lips clean, enjoying the taste. Then he nosed Optimus onto his side, and began worrying at the bindings around his wrists. He applied his denta until his jaw ached, but finally the rusted cords surrendered to his persistence, and Optimus pulled his servos back around with a happy chirp.

That sound pleased Megatron greatly; well worth his trouble and he wanted more of it, much more.

A less pleasing noise caught his attention, sounds of shuffling, as someone entered the side tunnel. Invading his territory. Threatening his mate and nest. Megatron rose to his pedes and stalked forward, his engine growling threat.

The mech that entered was familiar, however.

Blue wings and red eyes met his, challenging but not threatening. _This is a pack mate_ , he realized. The tunnel he'd found was the only appropriate shelter for their consorts. Megatron caught sight of the other carrying mech across his pack mate’s shoulders...nestled and resting between flicking wings.

Another war erupted within him; the beast code wanted him to drive away this intruder. Predacons were solitary hunters. They had neither need nor desire for others. Even their packs only ever consisted of sire, carrier, and a litter of clumsy young adolescents. Eventually all would wander away to live long, solitary lives, until the next breeding season.

But Megatron knew this mech. This was one of _his_ mechs. Possessive desire arose within him, from his own innermost being. That sense of _this one is mine_ fought the beast code’s _kill him now._ The other mech felt a similar pull, and both mechs sniffed at each other.

Then Ion Storm’s glossa slipped along his plating, a placating gesture, and he nibbled along his leader’s lips. The submissiveness and supplication pleased Megatron to his innermost being. Possession won the battle, and the rewards were immediate when Ion Storm hesitantly nestled against him. Rubbing along his sides, Ion Storm then reached sharp denta towards the bindings around Megatron’s wrists, then the hobbles around his ankles.

Megatron hissed in delight when his limbs fell free. Stretching and rolling his shoulders, he winced in discomfort as feeling returned to his fingers. Then at Ion Storm’s pleading wing-flicks, he returned the favor. His pack mate's bindings dropped to the floor just as grumbles from his mate re-captured Megatron’s attention.

After one last apprising look, both guardian mechs respectfully parted ways.

…

Optimus was much calmer for the feel of the nest around him. Nestled on his back, the mess around and beneath him was soft and yielding. The side-cave was cooler then outside and the darkness was deep and quiet. Not to mention the heavy body that insisted on comforting him.  

Megatron was currently confronting another Predacon nearby. To Optimus' audials, the thumping noises in the distance sounded like he was winning, and that was further reassuring to him. A strong mate was most desirable, even as some deep part of him still insisted the large dark blur was an old enemy.

_Confusing._

But the mech’s heavy scent was deeply comforting. Optimus licked his lips and sucked in another deep in-vent full, tasting Megatron’s residual scent.

Enticing to him, the scent-markers made his intakes work and his valve wet. It was also why he was grumbling. His valve clenched, wanting-needing-throbbing, and those instinctive movements made his outer mesh ache. He was still sore for the intense hurting the Allicon’s wretched stick had inflicted on him.

Optimus tried to curl around to lick at himself, but his belly was in the way, and his own body was fighting him. He was not as flexible as a true Predacon, to be able to reach and lick every inch of his own frame. He curled the other way, trying again, grumbling his frustration that he still couldn’t reach himself.

Then Megatron returned a moment later, his electromagnetic fields tasting of satisfaction. His servos were free, fingers curling for the joy of unrestricted movement.

Optimus was still grumbling when Megatron clambered into the nest and nuzzled him. The enticing scent grew even stronger now that his mate had returned, clearly victorious. Now Megatron was checking him over, concerned for his fussing.

But Optimus stole a moment away from worrying at his aching valve to check Megatron’s mouth… _more fuel?_

 _Soon,_ Megatron rumbled amusement down at him. _Tending you first._

Optimus was still too far gone to remember he actually _had_ fuel, mountains of it, even. Plenty of energon remained tucked away in his sub-space, though beasts had no such understanding. But slowly, very slowly, true consciousness was returning as the gas withdrew from them both, one reluctant molecule at a time.

Turning to try and curl again, Optimus dared grumble his discomfort at his mate. _Aches,_ and he huffed as he squirmed. Curling around again, he still failed to reach his sore valve.

Then Megatron pounced on him.

Maneuvering Optimus so that most of his body lay protected beneath his larger frame, Megatron's knees and legs splayed out, framing Optimus’ upper body so that Megatron could tend the lower parts of him. Folding his thighs back and wide, Optimus felt a cool ex-vent tickle his bare components, and anticipation built within him. Optimus breathed in more of that wonderful scent as the other was straddling him.

Trickles of fluid were dripping from Megatron's closed panels. 

One of them dripped down Megatron's thigh, and Optimus reached out and licked at the droplets. He spread the slick fluid over his glossa, tasting his mate. His valve clenched again, throbbing, that scent and taste a promise. Shivers ran down his back strut. Another cool vent over his bare valve, another little tremble. Ferocious need began to outstrip discomfort.

Finally satisfied with his position, Megatron settled down and began to attend Optimus with fervent desire.

 _Wanted to do this for a while now_ , and Megatron rumbled his pleasure and satisfaction. Little licks of greeting trailed over Optimus’ belly, light nibbles that traced down the curve.

Optimus’ moan of anticipation turned into a soft sigh of relief as a slick glossa traced over his sore slit. He spread his legs a little wider when the large blur licked a good, long stroke across his unhappy metal.

Stretching his helm back, Optimus' engine purred as Megatron began lapping at him, soothing him. This was what he wanted, needed. _Oh that_ _feels so good._

 _Haven’t even started…_ and Megatron rumbled, enjoying the pleased noises he’d finally coaxed from his mate. Nuzzling his lips against folds that now welcomed him, he could feel them slowly growing plush for such desperately needed attention. His glossa traced the outer rim, soothing strokes, and then a spike bumped against his chin.

Another engine rumble and Megatron took a moment to slide his lips over the spike head peeking out. He greeted the newcomer with his glossa, tickling the slit at the top.

Distracted from his task of preparing his mate for his spike, he licked and sucked along it. He was deeply enjoying the delighted noises that resulted from lavishing attention on his mate's spike. Those soft cries grew more and more frantic, urging him on.

Overload didn't take long, as his mate's array had gone for far too long without such attention.

There was a shock of energy along Megatron’s glossa, a soft keen from beneath him, and a thin spurt of fluid... barely more than a few drops. All which Megatron lapped up with a pleased rumble. He licked around the spike-head, encouraging, but only a few more drops emerged.

Most of Optimus' fluid was re-routed to his neglected gestation tank.

It felt good, _so good_ , but it wasn’t what he needed. Optimus huffed and squirmed, reaching up and tugging on Megatron, trying to push him back towards his valve, wanting more, _needing_ more. He moaned when Megatron returned his intakes to his needy valve.

Helm tilting back, Optimus could see his mate's panel above him, and he pressed his mouth against it. More fluid tricked out and Optimus licked along his intimate plating, tasting him. Reaching up, Optimus nudged along the seam, wanting him to retract his panel, wanting what was behind it.

The cover obliged him and retracted, the eager spike slid free, and Optimus nibbled and licked along its length. The heavy engine above him quickened for excitement. Licking along the shaft, he found it tightly erect, yet somehow tightening even more against his pleasing lips.

A shock of thrill raced up Megatron's spinal strut for the slick strokes up his throbbing spike. His plating flared in wild arousal, and he reared back for a moment, watching rapt as his mate's glossa left little trails of oral lubricant up his spike shaft. Watching with growing lust as his mate sucked along his spike ridges, little arcs of building charge racing along the length.

Then Megatron returned his mouth to Optimus' valve a moment later. Pleased to find it fully engorged, plump folds and a little trickle of lubricant, not enough, gleamed along the inner slit.

Slipping his glossa inside, Megatron traced the shallow nodes, teasing them. He sealed his lips around the rim, and worked his glossa as deep as he could. Swirling and sucking and licking, he felt a little surge of lubricant from his trembling mate and rumbled his delight when Optimus cried out again.

Plunging his glossa again and again past the plush valve-lips, he soon felt another burst of energy in his intakes. Another overload, and the valve walls clenched around his glossa and then Optimus was clicking and tugging at him frantically.

Megatron pulled back and loosened his grip as Optimus rolled over onto hands and knees, assuming an instinctive position. Spreading his legs, presenting himself, shaking with need, _ready, ready, ready._

 _Not ready. Not wet enough,_ Megatron knew that. Not _near_ enough lubricant on his lips and glossa, but when he tried to return his mouth to task, Optimus wasn't having any more of it. Grabbing hold of Megatron, he all but hauled Megatron over his bare back.

_Need!_

Wild, insistent chirps and clicks filled the air, and across the little cave, an interested, answering rumble drifted over from his pack mate. Something to the tune of... _are you going to tend that, because if I have to come over there I am bringing my spike with me-_

Megatron rumbled amusement, a trace more himself now then a beast.

Then Megatron wrapped his arms around his frantic, squirming counterpart. Aligning his spike, he nudged at the opening, spreading his own lubricant across the rim with careful intent. Tracing the entrance, Megatron pressed his spike-head against the soft metal there.

Beneath him, Optimus moaned and reached between his own legs, fingers clenching around the heavy spike teasing him. So cruel, oh how he ached! Fingers curled and slipped slick along the length, pumping the spike and sliding through oral lubricants.

Megatron's engine revved for the squeeze to his wet spike. He pulled in a gasp of air. Lighting-pleasure had his hips rocking into the fingers but still he forced himself to be careful. Ever more himself, his iron control held and he took his mate slowly, even though every guardian instinct ached for a wild rut, urged him to bury himself, to thrust and thrust and thrust and fill that tight little valve. Instead he pushed in, retreated and then pressed further, claiming his mate inch by inch.

The feel of Optimus, so tight, was incredible, but he took his time. Took his time and coated every inch of his mate's valve with his own lubricants for comfort before he bottomed out.

Charge was already building, from himself, but more from Optimus, the energy arching between their nodes. Megatron slid back, teasing and exciting every node, his slick lubricants making the movement a slow, pleasured glide.

It was both _too much_ and _not enough_ , and Optimus cried out. His valve was clenching, aching with need and he was already overloading again. It felt good but empty. He needed Megatron’s pleasure in this, needed Megatron so badly, and Optimus pressed back against the spike, trying to frag himself on it.

Megatron nuzzled along his neck, and started a gentle, rolling thrust. Growing more confident that he wasn't going to harm his mate and satisfied Optimus' valve was slick enough for him, he picked up the place. Thrust after gentle thrust, he threw his helm back and moaned, charge building higher and higher. He squeezed the other closer, then felt something deep inside the passage trying to wrap around his spike-head.

Megatron was close, very close, but not yet ready to spill. He could feel the inner valve opening already trying to clamp down on him, already trying to collect his transfluid.

 _He needs this badly,_ Megatron moaned again for the sensations, even as his waking mind realized his mate's gestation tank must be nearing critical. _Must not draw this out..._ and he buried his face against Optimus’ neck, relaxed himself, focusing on the sensations, plunging in and out, his spike ridges catching on nodes, energy arching back and forth between them, a tight building heat, feeling Optimus’ trembling, listening to Optimus' soft, pleasured cries, loving every little rumble, every little gasp.

Overload nipped at him, and his back arched for the peak. He gasped and shuddered for the tightness across his belly and the frantic clench around his spike as Optimus approached his third overlord.

Megatron pressed in deep, as deep as he could. The secondary valve opening clamped down over his spike, and he voiced his ecstasy and shuddered his release with a deep rumble.

A sharp cry and a flicker-flash of releasing charge signaled Optimus was tipping over with him.  Running cooler than his mate, his transfluid was a soothing wash, and Megatron reached down and rubbed gently around the valve rim. Nuzzling his face against Megatron's cheek, Optimus moaned his approval and relief.

Megatron's stroking fingers extended his mate's pleasure even as the trembling valve walls did the same for him, massaging all along the length of his spike. The pulsing and tight, tight squeeze encouraged a long, full release.

Helping Optimus lay down on his side to rest, Megatron remained wrapped around his mate. He shivered through the after-shocks, his spike still held captive by the inner valve opening clamped around him. He knew he wasn't likely to get it back, not for another few rounds at least. Not by the way it still clenched down on him. He'd barely even begun to provide, and he wasn't done yet.

Oh how he was looking forward to it.

...

Far across the side cave, the quiet sounds of desperate Allicons sealing off the cave's opening faded before reaching the four resting Cybertronians. Peering into the dark, Megatron's Allicon hissed worried encouragement at his weak, shaking troops. The ranking Allicon was running though his options, struggling to find something, anything that could be used as an advantage, and he was coming up empty.

The sun was going down, and across the Courtyard, the other Cybertronians were beginning to stir.

Time was running out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by the extremely talented Tunagriff! Thank you so much! <3


	16. Moratorium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a lull in the storm and mechs take a much-needed breather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS. This story can get very dark, and please be aware of that. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :)

Diesel engine rumbles swirled through his dreams.

They teased at his audials until consciousness stirred, and Megatron cracked opened his optics. Sucking in a deep breath, he slowly lifted his helm as air gusted back out through his vents in hot streams. Far more himself then beast now, his optics narrowed a bit when he didn’t recognize his surroundings. The area around him was pitch-black, perhaps a cave, and he was half-buried in comfortable dreck. He was still hazy for where he was and why, and his consciousness wandered in slow, sleepy circles until he realized he wasn’t alone.

There was a smaller frame pressed to his front, and this was the source of the pleasant rumbles. After another slow breath, Megatron found enough wherewithal to touch over his companion, and in doing so, finally recognized who was nestled in his arms ... _Prime_ , his mouth formed the glyphs, and was most pleased for the discovery.

For his part, Prime seemed every bit as relaxed as the larger mech currently spooning him. His engine was idling with a low, thrumming purr, whispering of comfort and contentment. His head was pillowed on Megatron’s arm, and he was deep in recharge. Their electromagnetic fields were wholly entwined, and they were bouncing comfort pulses off each other.

While still confused for his surroundings, Megatron remained calm and quiet as a strong sense of … _my_ _enemy is dead_ … stayed with him. The faintest scent of blood from a smear on his cheek was reassuring, and so the whys and wherefores seemed a distant matter of concern. He didn’t chase after those hazy tendrils of thought, and instead luxuriated in the feel of the body cuddled against him ... and his arm encircled around Prime's belly while his other hand cupped … lower, and he rumbled in contentment.

Prime remained deep in recharge and, for once, so very at ease. Engine purring, his scent whispered of satiation while lost to circuit dreams. Deeper then apparent, he was currently suspended over an abyss from which he wouldn’t wake for some time. Suspended… but not gone yet.

Something kept him from tumbling down into the lucid dreams.

Breathing him in, Megatron stretched a little and then froze when he realized why the vibrations were so acute. His spike twitched, still buried deep within Prime's valve, his spikehead held snug in the secondary valve aperture. No question what they’d been up to ... and no wonder why he felt so satiated. And yet when he tried to remember the details he found he couldn’t, and that brought on a touch of concern.

Still adrift, Prime didn’t offer up an opinion on their current state of affairs. His valve, at least, was deliriously happy for its current companion; perfectly shaped, a lovely stretch, not too much for comfort, proper connecting points, absolutely no sharp edges, and a comfortable gestation tank. It all combined into a deep sense of contentment, though the happy little squeeze from below reminded Megatron of his original intentions.

“Don’t shoot me,” Megatron murmured. His lips moved against Prime’s neck cables, and Megatron felt Prime's bare pedes curl a little for the mouthing tickle.

Burning, flaming death by blaster fire seemed unlikely, for many reasons. Foremost that Prime was still asleep. His face plates remained peaceful, with his intakes parted and his vents gusty-soft. But Megatron remembered Overlord’s shocked expression; the sheer dumb amazement when Optimus Prime had ended his reign of terror with that well-placed shot.

Megatron remembered how Overlord had handled Prime, so damned careless. The maniac should have known better. Quirking lips for the memory elicited another toe-curl from Prime and another little squeeze from below.

Megatron held on to that peaceful moment with both fists. Then he began to extract his spike, inch by careful inch. Frowning a little in his sleep for the loss, Prime drifted away with a parting engine rumble.

After freeing himself, Megatron settled back down after a moment of contemplation. His thoughts swirling in muzzy disarray and he debated if he should wake Prime now. Upon discovering their situation, his counterpart may wish to take the opportunity to register a complaint with his fists. In truth, Megatron was far more inclined to take the hits when Prime’s fists weren't plated. It might be better to face this immediately, instead of later ... but Prime was so damned _comfortable._

Megatron knew that his counterpart needed every klik of his rest, and he was still debating on what to do when Prime’s expression smoothed over and Megatron slowly relaxed as the low engine-purrs returned. "If you insist, Prime," he murmured, and then re-wrapped himself around his counterpart. He was still mulling over how best to handle this little development when sheer comfort lulled him back into recharge.

They were both so groggy-drowsy that the rattling of opening bars didn’t rouse them.

 

***

“Quickly!” Megatron’s Allicon said, “Get the rest of them inside!"

He was feeling only a little better for the cooler night temperatures, though the dreadful reality of his situation was still crashing down on him. With a harsh grind of his teeth, he pointed at Swindle and Bluestreak. "All except those two. Leave them out, we will need them later.”

The Allicon soldiers dumped the dazed Sunstreaker and the rest of the Junkions into the side cave.

Trying to put up a fight, the Junkions turned on their captors, howling traditional battle cries of “Leroy!” and the ever rousing, “Spooooon!” But stabbing pain sticks and several careful blaster shots convinced them that discretion was the better part of valor. Prodding them away, the Allicon slammed the crude gate closed. They used several titan-steel shackles and various metal cuffs and cords to seal the side cave entrance closed. Then all stood back as the prisoners stumbled deeper into their new pen.

One of the Junkions tripped over a recharging Ion Storm, earning a sharp punch to his face plates for his clumsiness. “Say it with _flowers_ ,” the junk-pile said as he staggered away, vanishing into the trash with a groan of relief. “Often licked, never beaten,” another Junkion agreed, hugging the garbage with true affection as bare cages amounted to nightmare fuel for such a clutter-loving species.

“Do these things actually count towards our quota?” One of the Allicon grumbled while watching the Junkions vanish into the mess, and the ranking Allicon winced. “They _are_ a sub-species of Cybertronian…”

“Why not leave them in the cages?” Another soldier asked, looking puzzled. “At least we could keep a closer eye on them, and they wouldn’t have so much room to move around?”

The ranking Allicon chuckled, a mocking _horf-horf-horf_ as he double-checked the shackles locking the recovered assets inside. “Did you not _see_ the corpse?”

The soldier looked away, fidgeting. He remained at attention as he stared into the darkness while the ranking Allicon continued to inspect the bindings. Curiously, these were the only titan-steel shackles they'd found.

The ranking Allicon had stumbled across Overlord's personal chambers while retreating from the burning light of day with his troops, desperately searching for shelter. The shackles had been part of some sort of elaborate harness in one of the larger living chambers, what looked to be the original commandant's chamber. Entering the sordid room, his mouth had fallen agape at the sight.

The strange assortment of interconnected straps had been dangling from hooks in the ceiling, and a soaking berth pad lay beneath, just short of the harness itself. Various toys piled nearby looked to be of questionable application, carved from rusty garbage. More mystifying items lay within arm’s reach along with a blindfold, various coiled tubes and tools. Next to them, lovingly arranged in full view of the harness, was an assortment of serrated, needle-like blades. A flower arrangement of false spikes completed the collection; all adorned with rusted hooks, razors, needles, and other flavors of piercing or slicing implements.

But far, far worse was the state of the current occupant, perhaps a warm up for some anticipated main event. The bipedal alien mech was no longer among the living, and from the look of him, most grateful for it.

The ranking Allicon had quirked an optic for the larger world of obscenity and depravity offered by the scene. But the Allicon were blunt creatures, possessing only straight forward desires. Lacking Overlord’s breathtakingly macabre imagination, he failed to grasp the deeper implications.

 _An outrageous display,_ was his most prevailing thought.

Contemptuous, he had still managed to salvage several cuffs out of the odd mess. Although he had wanted nothing more than to apply them to the assets themselves, it was critical that the main cave entrance stayed sealed. That barrier was all that stood between the heat-touched Allicon soldiers and hordes of unruly assets ... but the soldier questioning his orders was still not getting the larger picture.

“He was just a junior and lost control of his–”

“Without collars," Megatron's Allicon hissed, "the only thing that will hold these assets is titan-steel. Hence, moving them into a _titan-steel_ pen they can’t so easily escape from.”

Releasing the bindings, the ranking Allicon ground his teeth. He hated how flimsy the pen was. At least the new door was stout, made of titan-steel. From the look of things, his old war-mech had just stomped right through his rusty cage door. Cages seemed a better option to the simple-minded, but the ranking Allicon knew better.

It wouldn’t be long before the aggressive Cybertronians outside made an appearance. It was his dreadful misfortune that most had remained out of reach. “Now, get the two mechs I selected and bind them down near the entrance.”

The soldier stared at the cobbled-together door, not convinced in the slightest. But he knew better than to keep arguing. "Yes, commander."

Turning to deal with the two unfortunates instead, the Allicon soldier found he couldn’t get the badly injured Swindle to stand. The delirious jeep ignored all prompts. Optics glazed over, he was humming a song about pineapples.

Across the way, Overlord was venting evenly, awake but still paralyzed. His spark was linked up to a small power-cell, stabilizing him, for now. He flashed his sharkticon-grin at passing soldiers, a strained effort, but his eyes remained cheerful and calculating. Not much he could do with a pinched off spine and ruined fuel lines, and he remained disappointed the Allicon hadn't helped him out with that. Currently the Allicon were ignoring him as a contained asset and unimportant, and this soldier was the same, too busy snapping orders at Swindle to pay Overlord any mind. So rude.

Giving up, the soldier dragged Swindle towards the cave entrance. "Walk ahead of me," he ordered the downcast, collared Bluestreak. "Stay where I can see you, or I will drop you."

The ranking Allicon watched them leave, troubled. He peered past the grating, but couldn’t make out anyone in the darkness within. His old war-mech was out of sight in his Predacon-style nest, and the Junkions had vanished into the thick trash-layer as was their wont.

But the side-cave _was_ solid. The rocky walls were thick, and in the deepest part, intersected by titan-steel grating from the second level below. The ranking Allicon grunted in satisfaction. This particular cage should hold his old war-mech.

For now, anyway.

The soldier returned from the cave entrance a moment later. “I chained the two assets down near the cave entrance. Still nothing yet, commander.”

“I go to rest. Stand watch. Advise me the instant the fugitive assets arrive,” the ranking Allicon said, and waved the soldier off.

 _With a proper show of force, I should be able to threaten the other assets into submission_. The ranking Allicon shuffled back towards the deepest part of the main cave, considering his situation.  _I have already recovered their leader, an excellent stroke of luck._ He remained hopeful that without the hulking brute to lead them, the other assets could be cowed by threats of punishment and promises of forgiveness.

Forgiveness until they were all chained down, of course.

***

 

Outside the Bailiwick, the Courtyard was clear and quiet, a most unusual state of affairs.

Inside was only a little less quiet, as anyone with active guardian coding had been functional enough to move for many joors. But without an active neocortex or carrying mechs to stir protective instincts, most had merely crept away to hide. Predacon instincts encouraged shunning others, thus injured guardians had dragged themselves towards secluded spots as best they could. Here and there could be seen hollowed nests with shivering frames resting within them.

Thundercracker was one of the first without active coding to climb to his pedes. After the gas receded he'd fought and fought, forcing himself towards consciousness, too desperate to stay down and sleep. Finally, he'd made it to his pedes. Spark pounding a drumbeat in his chest, he stumbled down the passageway and began searching for his missing trine mate.

“Pipes? You okay? Don’t … don’t … leave me hanging … lil’ buddy…”

Thundercracker froze, listening. He oriented on the weak cries and then headed towards the wracked voice. He was close; now he could hear Snarl calling through external audio and over internal comms. Staggering toward the massive hulk, he saw Snarl struggle and then collapse, still too unsteady to stand.

Rolling onto his side with his back plates all a-clatter, Snarl groaned. “Come on … answer me ... Pipes ...”

“He’s okay,” and Thundercracker fell more than knelt down next to Snarl’s muzzle. “Out in the main entrance. Still down for the gas. Checked him a breem ago, he’s still venting.”

Relieved for the news, Snarl returned the favor and wheezed out everything he’d seen of Skywarp. It wasn’t much. Thundercracker's face plates fell when Snarl only confirmed what he already knew; no one knew what had become of his trine mate.

Thundercracker questioned everyone who was awake enough to answer, and was horrified to learn that Skywarp had teleported an entire _crowd_. No one had seen ‘Warp past the point he had disappeared. And Skywarp wasn’t the only one; Megatron, Prime, Ion Storm, Swindle, Sunstreaker, Wreck-Gar, and a whole host of Junkions were also missing.

Thundercracker tried to contact them over internal comms, with no response. Alas com lines were currently silent as most mechs were still unconscious. And yet, more were alive then lost, and Snarl’s last desperate charge had saved no small numbers of them. Rampaging through the narrow passageway, the Dynobot had crushed numerous aliens under his pedes. He’d helped clear the Bailiwick right before the gas put them all down for the count.

If even one alien had survived…

Thundercracker put that frightening thought out of his head. No point in dwelling on what might have been. His reality was bad enough and he stumbled to his pedes to keep searching. He did take the time to call back over his shoulder as he limped away, “Good job, back there. Couldn’t have lived through this without you.”

With a feeble thump of his tail, Snarl sank back into a much-needed sleep.

Thundercracker was disheartened to find the last of the cell-rooms empty, and felt he had no choice but to give up on his trine mate. He clung to hope that the Quints were holding Skywarp, or he might lose his processor. His wings shook, and he'd have blamed the trembling on his wounds if anyone asked, but no one did. Everyone was still either unconscious or only half-awake.

Stepping over piles of bodies, Thundercracker began to pull his friends and subordinates out from around the corpses. He carried them over his shoulders, though he was still unsteady and his legs shook for the strain. He knew was one of the fortunate ones to be on his pedes at all, and he kept moving, collecting and laying the injured out near the currently unmanned med-station.

After realizing Dirge was at death's door, Thundercracker set out to find their only medic.

It took longer then was acceptable, but he finally found the Constructicons, all piled up in a single nest of hulking lime-green frames. Limbs a-helter-skelter, it was hard to see where one Constructicon began and another ended. The bowl-shaped nest suggested their guardian coding was active now, as did their focus on the carrying mech nestled deep inside the ‘Structie cuddle pile ... a snoozing Datsun protected by heavy machinery and the sheer volume of Long Haul’s ludicrous snoring.

Thundercracker searched the pile for Hook, and then nudged the surgeon with his pede until he awoke with a start.

“–ever-loving frag is your _malfunction_ , you–”

“We need you,” Thundercracker said, and the harshness of his voice cut Hook’s surly rant short. Then he informed Hook of his waiting patients, currently outside the med-station. He listed out the names of those that may not last another joor, and then turned away as Hook staggered to his pedes, spitting mouthfuls of stunned curses upon hearing how long he’d slept … and why.

Heading back for more injured, Thundercracker limped on, all the while searching the dead piles for a beloved pair of dark wings.

 

***

“Hey … _you._ Wake up.”

Pipes’ optics lit up as his processor came back online, “Huh?”… then he sat up in a hurry when a _very_ sharp-horned muzzle poked him a little harsher than necessary. A massive, three-horned Dynobot was staring at him, and Pipes leaned back, unconsciously putting more space between himself and all those pointy ends.

It took him a few kliks before he could remember the cantankerous Dynobot’s name, as they’d never met before. Everything he knew about this mech he’d heard from others. Not all of it was good. Actually, most of it wasn’t good. But this was Snarl’s brother, and that’s all he needed to know.

“…Slag?”

“Quints,” Slag coughed out the bitter glyph. He didn’t waste words and cut right to the point. “Mess of them coming. Go warn everybody.”

Pipes sat up and his body relaxed. “They already attacked, but we got the energy shield up in time. We are all safe now, okay?”

Slag slumped for the welcome news. His little trembles of relief laced with pain made his harness rattle, and he wheezed as he sank back to the ground. His legs felt like they were on fire, and everything hurt. The last thing he remembered was tumbling end over end down the prison lift shaft, and he couldn’t remember anything after he’d hit the ground.

Heaving, Slag rolled himself from his side to his belly, unable to fully quell the soft moans that escaped every time he moved what was left of his legs. “I hurt,” he grunted out, “Hurt real bad. Thirsty. Hungry. Can you help?”

Pipes was watching him with sympathy, and perked up as soon as he realized could be of some help. “Yes, of course I will! We have soup and lots of fluid for drinking. I will check if Hook is recovered yet. He’s our medic.”

Still unsteady, Pipes pulled himself to his knees and from there to his pedes. He stood wobbling in place, looking for all the world like some new creature struggling for balance.

“Hook? _Constructicon_ Hook?”

“Yeah, him,” Pipes said. “Everyone is working together. Megatron is leading us against the Quints. Well, against Overlord. _Then_ the Quints…I don’t know. Honest, I don’t. But Megatron hasn’t killed us Autobots yet. Though I guess we are just calling ourselves Cybertronians now. Oh, and Prime is here too, but the Quints wrecked him pretty bad and he’s not leading us right now. Everything’s kind of a mess. But Hook’s been… okay, enough. He’s our doctor.”

Slag sniffed at all that. Too many words all in a rush and he didn’t like it. He _really_ didn’t like the Constructicons either, but he wasn't up for registering a complaint.

There was a rustle nearby, and Sludge’s heavy body stretched out a little for the noise. He was lying next to his brother in the soft dreck, and for a few moments it looked like he was going to try and sit up. A soft moan rumbled his massive body, and then Sludge gave up on his struggle towards wakefulness and sank back into recharge. Like his brother, he was beyond tired, and couldn't see any reason to stay in the land of the lucid. With the state of his legs and tail, it was likely the brightest idea he’d had in a long time.

 _Thump, thump, WHOMP-crash! Whump-thunk, thump_ , and Snarl's lumbering noise preceded him as he stomped his way towards the Bailiwick entrance. His tail was lashing as he kicked trash every-which-way. Thanks to Thundercracker, he knew where Pipes was resting, and he’d pointed himself in that direction as soon as his pedes would stay under him.

Pipes’ spark brightened for the sound of Snarl’s unsteady approach, and he shouted “Over here!” even as his fingers curled in excitement for the upcoming reunion. He knew how badly Snarl had been missing his brothers, and he couldn't wait to see them all together again.  

"Coming," Snarl bellowed out, not even bothering to hide the relief in his voice. Then he turned the corner and took in his little buddy’s face plates with a surge of spark-felt relief. He’d been so damned worried, hadn’t been able to check on Pipes for joors after he’d awoken, called and called over internal comms with no response, too feeble to move for…

…the…

…gas…  

“Prox-alarm wasn’t a malfunction!” Pipes cheered while pointing at the two mechs next to him, even as Snarl’s muzzle went slack as Sludge snuffled in his sleep and a weakened Slag raised his helm off the trash-drift with the widest eyes imaginable and then Pipes just _beamed_.

Snarl’s howl of sheer joy was indescribable.

***

 

The gas was working out of their systems with agonizing slowness. 

No one was happy, and for a time the Bailiwick looked like a set for Dawn of the Robo-Dead as everyone was groggy and unsteady, stumbling around and clinging to things, tripping over trash drifts, stray Junkions, and each other.

Inside the med-station, the Constructicons were all hard at work, though none harder than Hook. Triage procedures were already in place. Thanks to Thundercracker’s efforts, the injured were already outside the med-station.

These were the moments when Hook proved his worth to his team and his faction. The payoff for putting up with his charming personality was the lives he saved and he was doing some _damned_ fine work today. He’d already wrestled Nautilator and Nova Storm back from the siren-song of the Well of Allsparks. But he had his limits; Dirge was proving too much a challenge.

“Miserable Quints,” Hook snarled under his breath. “I could have saved him if they hadn’t forced this nap on us. Now his spark’s too contracted to recover.”

Across from him, a sleepy Scavenger was popping Prowl’s new door-wing frames into place. Still groggy, he was just too excited to wait. He wanted to see if his little project worked. That and he found the scent wafting from his dethroned team leader almost irresistible.

Prowl kept his own council; he had locked the Constructicons out after they’d rebelled against him. Furious, he was ready to wash his servos of them, and yet he still needed them. Severely injured, he knew they were the only means of protection and restoration for himself and now, his unborn sparkling.

Especially now he knew Megatron was here.

For their part, the Constructicons seemed suitably apologetic. They were scrabbling against his mental block, whispering fervent apologies, trying to coax him to let them back in. Combining with them had done him a world of good along with the bad, and now they smelled so good to him. It alarmed him that some not-quite-right part of him wanted them, needed them, and he was suspicious.

Too groggy to remember the cycle before, Prowl had his suspicions after waking up in Long Haul’s arms as the Constructicons stumbled after Hook towards the med-station and their duties. Checking himself, he found the painful valve apparatus gone -all well and good- and his gestation tank _brimming_.

_Damn them all._

Now he was sitting in Mixmaster’s lap in a corner of the med-station, trying to figure out what to do about them. Twisting a scrap of rag into pieces, he struggled to think while staring skeptically at the curious pair of items in Scavenger's servos: new door-wings. They were a merry shade of garbage-rust, questionable in origin if not in design. Attaching the connecting wires with utmost care, Scavenger squeaked when, after a _pop-click_ , Prowl’s new appendages twitched and flared.

They worked perfectly.

“Made them for you,” Scavenger offered a shy smile as Prowl stared at his new appendages. He gave his new door-wings an experimental flap, and they _were_ satisfactory. He remained furious with them – backstabbing, opportunistic traitors that they were – and yet the tiniest smile turned up the corner of his mouth.

Squirming in delight, Scavenger looked over at a grinning Mixmaster. “I think he likes them!”

Stomping past with four servings of soup, a gargantuan tank of fluid, and a sleepy Pipes piled across his back, Snarl turned and thumped his thick tail in disapproval at the scene. “My brothers are _injured_. They need their pedes looked at if _you_ ain’t doing nothing–”

Scavenger looked hurt for the harsh tone. “Salvage and recovery, that’s my specialty. I’m not a medic.”

“Chemical engineer,” Mixmaster nodded agreement in defense of their idle servos. “That’s what _I_ do. Now, if you want a strut-deep chemical burn, I am your mech–”

“Clear the aisles, ingrate! If you aren’t dying, I don’t want to see your plates cluttering up my med-station!” Hook’s tone sounded particularly vicious, as nobody but _nobody_ dressed down his brothers in front of his face…except for him. And Long Haul. Megatron, of course. Maybe Onslaught. _Technically_ Thundercracker… _but nobody else!_

Snarl stomped away with a dismissive swish of his powerful tail. Fluid sloshed down his sides when he stumbled, still unsteady. But Pipes lunged forward and kept the precious soup from spilling.

“Guys!” Pipes shouted back over his shoulder, “Soups on! There’s roasted Hexadar arms by the cauldron if you want them! Get them while they’re hot!”

Too busy with their various tasks, the Constructicons didn't notice a lithe little shadow creeping towards them. The shadow ducked into a nearby cell with cat-like grace as crowds of bleary Cybertronians and Junkions staggered towards the cell that served as a communal kitchen.

Reappearing, the shadow crept ever closer to the med-station, vanishing once again when Long Haul appeared from around the corner.

Long Haul stepped inside Hook's domain, holding out a handful of clean rags for Hook. In his other hand he was holding their morning rations, and he plopped down several mugs of soup. Then he leaned back and rested against the wall for support. He was in dire need of rest, but as a member of Command, he was dragging himself through his duties, even though he felt like death slagged over.

Eventually the ceaseless humming of Hook's welder pulled him back to the here and now. Pushing off the wall, Long Haul frowned down at Dirge’s open chest plates, specifically at the ever-shrinking spark within.

“…update?”

Hook wiped his fluid-soaked servos on a rag. “Breakdown is gone. Nautilator and Nova Storm are going to pull through, but Dirge was already graying at his wingtips when arrived. He is not responding to my attempts to stabilize him.” Snatching at a soup-mug, Hook drained the contents in one long series of ravenous gulps. Then he tossed it over his shoulder and went straight back to work.

But Long Haul stopped him. “Leave him then,” and Long Haul jabbed his thumb at the other injured mechs waiting. “Get to the next in line.”

Then Long Haul turned to the others. “Scavenger, Mixmaster,” he said, frowning to see them fawning over Prowl when they could be working. “Leave Prowl here. I want you to head out to the Courtyard. Take a quick look around. See if you can figure out which rock the fragging Quints are under. Basic recon _only_ and keep an open comm with me.”

Queue the whining. “Can’t the Combaticons–”

Long Haul clenched a fist in warning. “Onslaught is still out cold, Brawl is singing a song about a pineapple under the sea – _no asking questions!_ – and Vortex over there,” he pointed at the unconscious Combaticon still in line for medical attention, “isn’t going anywhere until his stab wounds get patched up.”

“But–”

“Move your afts before I bust them!” Long Haul snapped. They would never have questioned Scrapper. The thought rankled, as it always did. He sent a harsh warning along the gestalt link, and that was that.

Slouching just a little, Mixmaster lifted Prowl off his lap and helped him settle down on the stool. Both Mix and Scavenger dragged their pedes and threw longing glances back at Prowl, but plodded away without another word.

Scavenger's pace picked up as soon as they were out of sight of Prowl. Pleased for the success of his gift, his mood was already brightening and as he walked, he turned to Mix and asked, "Do you remember if Brawl was crashed out near Onslaught?"

Mixmaster nodded affirmative. "Onslaught hates it when he sings earth songs." His optics flashed gleefully for Brawl's sheer brass. Aft-clownery at it's finest. No way could they get away with anything like that. Though to be fair, if Onslaught could move, Brawl would probably be eating fists right now.

“Hook!” Thundercracker shuffled past them, heading towards the med-station with Acid Storm in his arms. “I need help! I can’t wake him. He looked better than the others, but I think he’s lost too much fluid!”

“Is he venting?”

“Yes but–”

 “Then get in line,” Hook snarled while working over several other wounded mechs. “Put him in the cell across the way and _stop distracting me!_ ”

“Okay, okay, _Primus_ –”

“– _what the fragging devil!_ ”

***

 

Thundercracker was already laying Acid Storm out on a berth when he heard Hook’s shocked yelp. Stepping out into the passageway, TC jumped back when a skinny frame balancing haphazardly astride another skinny frame bolted out the door of the med-station.

 _“Tchwirp!”_ Prowl click-squeaked, surprised as any of them for the mad-cap rescue. Frantic arms wrapped around Jazz’s head, thighs on either side of Jazz's neck, Prowl's perch was _most_ precarious. Door-wings flapped pinwheels trying to maintain balance.

Recognizing the kidnapper’s face plates if nothing else, Thundercracker stared, dumbstruck, as Optimus Prime’s bare-aft saboteur flashed him a playful grin.  Rags were poking out of every one of Jazz’s vents, waving gaily like flags in a breeze as he busted aft towards the secret tunnel.

Thundercracker considered tackling him, but then shrugged and chose not to waste the energy. _Honestly_. It would be like rescuing Ion Storm from Nova Storm; completely pointless. And so TC lifted his hands in surrender and stepped out of the way.

Thundercracker's assessment seemed accurate when he saw Prowl steady himself and then lean waaaay over Jazz's helm and peer – all but upside down – at Jazz with a dry, questioning expression... _the hell are you on about?_

 _Savin’ your adorable bacon_ , _of course! Whatever else? ..._ or that’s what Jazz would have said if he could. He couldn’t, but his smooth, lazy grin drove home the intent.

Prowl’s wings slanted back mid-flap to match his narrowing eyes _. I am where I want to be. Put me down._

 _Frag no_ , Jazz didn’t say, but just coughed and staggered a little faster instead. _The ‘Cons did something to you. I saw the Constructicons combine with you somehow. This is a rescue! Just trust me!_

The Constructicons didn’t see it that way, of course. “Stop him!” Hook howled as Long Haul gave chase. Scavenger and a near-hysterical Mixmaster staggered past a few kliks thereafter.

Jazz could hear the Constructicons gaining on him, but he just upped his game. Stumble-hopping, he fled like Mortilus the Death-Bringer was on his heels: the Constructicons His devil-grasp, their furious optics His dagger-gaze, their enraged cries His flaming-breath, their pitiful, stumbling pursuit His… rusty tricycle?

“Don’t hurt him!” howled Scavenger, over the sound of his pounding pedes. “He doesn’t like being hurt!”

“You know they are _buddies_ , right?” Thundercracker yelled after them. Unfortunately, common sense was elsewhere – too busy singing a threesome with Brawl about nautical nonsense – and so nobody was listening.

Thundercracker watched them disappear around the corner. Then a familiar ID tag popped up in his HUD, pulling him back to his duties.

For his part, Jazz reached the slats before the tunnel proper a few seconds later. His pedes slid across the slats, and having ended the slowest high-speed chase in the history of the Cybertronian race with a decisive win, he transformed through smooth as glass.

Style, thy name be Porsche.

Datsun, less so.

Prowl was going to put up a fight right there, but one panicky jazz-hands tickle session later ( _whooo_ _!_ ) and a writhing Prowl dropped through as well. Both Autobots vanished down below amidst crowding lime green frames and spark-broken cries.

***

 

"Snorrzzt ... snnzzz ... zzzzz..."

Sideswipe was deep in recharge, buried in a comfortable nest beneath a pair of protective blue wings. His sleep was perfect, gloriously so, and he slept on even when a demanding hand on his ankle prompted another sleepy snort.

"Snnorzt!"

Sideswipe was accustomed to rude (usually golden hued) mechs trying to wake him early and so disregarded the fingers. Alas, the servo tugs were insistent and finally pulled him right out of recharge. Curling around, he glowered downward, trying to see where the mech hassling him was. The nest was dug deep, and he was right next to the grating beneath, part of the ceiling of the next level down.

Light was coming in through the grating, though not much as it was midway through the night cycle now. Just enough to make out details if he squinted… and then Sideswipe reared back for surprise. Jazz’s stylish face plates blinked back up at him, lips folded downward in an accusing stare. It was a rare expression, not often seen coming from the laid back Porsche.

But right now, said Porsche wasn’t feeling so laid back.

It didn't help that Jazz was forced to keep ahold of an ill-tempered Prowl least he flee back to his murderous groupies, and Jazz's jimmies were further rustled when he'd spotted Sideswipe while heading back down to rejoin the others. Now Jazz was all concerned and stuff, entirely unsure why 'Sides seemed to be _sleeping on the fragging job_.

Jazz himself had been awake for some time, hunting down and rescuing Prowl from the ‘Cons. Now that his rescue mission was complete, he needed to get back to check on the others. He hadn't expected to spot the sleeping Lambo on the way, and now he was worried about Prime. Not to mention Jazz and Prowl were currently exposed out in the open, though Jazz was sure he'd lost the Constructicons.

For now, anyway.

Prowl kept looking behind them, though. He kept peering up through the slats, and it worried Jazz. Something was dreadfully wrong, he was sure of it. All of this was making him uncharacteristically anxious, which wasn't cool. Neither was finding Sideswipe sleeping on the job, and Jazz kept his eyes peeled while gesturing at Sideswipe, who dared look confused.

 _What are you waitin’ for, mech?_ _You can make it through, so come on! And where is Prime? You **did** rescue Prime, right?!  _and Jazz’s gesture for Prime was to poke both fingers at the side of his helm to mimic long audials, and thumped himself over his spark. Y _ou know...that mech we both love? The one that likes to give his life away in ridiculous heroics if we don't keep an optic on him?_

_Ringin' any bells here?!_

Meanwhile, Prowl was just about to try and hop off Jazz when he caught sight of who Jazz was flailing at. Squinting up at the Lambo, Prowl startled when he finally recognized Sideswipe. His optics softened and his mouth tightened into a thin line to see what had become of the rambunctious front-liner.

After piecing together Jazz’s gestures, Sideswipe jolted for the reminder and grinned sheepishly. He waved placatingly at Jazz _… jeeze calm down and hold on a klik_ … and then shook the snoozing Seeker above him awake.

Sideswipe wiggled past as Ion Storm jolted upright with a muzzy “Wha…?” and Sideswipe stumbled to his pedes and caught sight of Megatron and Optimus Prime’s biolighting in the dark. They were spooning together a distance away, and looked as comfy as Sideswipe used to be, before shaken awake by an angry smooth jivin' Porsche.

Speaking of angry porsches, and Sideswipe hopped back into the nest, waving at Jazz through the grating. He thumped over his spark chamber … _Prime’s here. Give me a minute!_

Jazz huffed in annoyance. He hunkered down in a trash-drift to wait, but the instant he sank down a rather peeved Prowl tried to hop off and away. That wasn't no good, and so Jazz pounced and a short wrestling match ensued.

Prowl found himself losing hard (Jazz was all hands and a dirty wrestler) and fell back onto his aft. His door-wings flared and he waved at Jazz in half-surrender. _Enough of this,_ Prowl gestured dismissively, so accustomed to being in charge. _Let me go,_ and then they stared at each other, the moment running long, the both of them so skinny and battered and bare.

And then Jazz looked upwards. Up towards where the Constructicons lurked, up towards all the madness he'd seen, and Jazz shook his head. _How 'bout no? Is no okay?  …‘Cause the answer is no._

Inside the pen, Sideswipe didn’t notice the trouble brewing. He was too busy worrying at Ion Storm. He tugged and pulled at those smooth wing-panels, as he knew he was going to need help getting Optimus away from Megatron.

Shaken awake, Ion Storm was still catching his bearings. He swallowed the thick oral fluids coating his intakes and rubbed at his face plates. He glanced over Sideswipe and then down at himself, noting the mess of drying lubricants liberally splattered over both their legs, even as Sideswipe continued shaking him. Then he reached out and tucked Sideswipe close, to stop all the shaking.

“What happened? My helm feels so … thick.”

Sideswipe didn't understand any of that, and so just pointed at himself and then down at the grate, making gestures that amounted to _have to go,_ though Ion Storm didn't seem to get the picture. Sideswipe kept trying, his face floating in the darkness, lit only by his optic-shine as his protective and ornamental plating was gone. He continued to gesture and tug at Ion Storm, pointing towards Megatron.

Dim light was coming from a clear section of grating beneath him, and, looking downward through the slats, Ion Storm caught sight of two more sets of blue optics peering up at him.

 _More carrying mechs?_  

And then Ion Storm's memory-core rebooted, reconnecting to his conscious processor and he looked around with sudden, intense confusion.

_Wait, what?_

“What … where the hell are we?” and Ion Storm stumbled to his pedes an instant later, growing more alarmed by the klik. “I don’t remember getting here? Where is this?”

One of the Junkions poked his helm out from the garbage layer and took it upon himself to answer in bursts of short, lilting glyphs. Around them, the Junkions were also chattering amongst themselves. The excitement was infectious and soon their jackdaw-chatter grew loud enough to draw unwanted attention. Dragging his pain stick along the bars for emphasis, one of the Allicon soldiers shouted for quiet. The electric buzz of a pain stick along with a burst of sparks brightened the front of the cave.

“Quints,” Ion Storm spat between clenched denta as the gravelly voice of the Allicon confirmed this nightmare was very real.

Then Ion Storm realized his internal comm line was blinking. It looked like there was a lively connection going right now. Connecting, he winced when a cornucopia of voices exploded to life inside his HUD. Air Commander Thundercracker was foremost of those voices, demanding a report. Ion Storm found himself splitting his attention between the demanding voices in his HUD and the carrying mech gesturing at him. 

Reaching out, Ion Storm pulled an excited Sideswipe flush to his chest plates. Studying the gestures, he tried to glean meaning from them while updating his Air Commander on everything he knew about the Quints. Which, to his regret, wasn’t much.

Next to them, Sunstreaker started to mumble threats, irritated for the ruckus. His legs were splayed out in front of him and he was resting against the cave wall where he’d dragged himself. He started looking around for the source of the noise and then caught sight of Ion Storm. No, nothing here worth staying awake for ... and Sunstreaker sank back down.

"Shut ... the frag up," Sunstreaker coughed, and then fell quiet.

Sideswipe’s gestures froze mid-motion for Sunstreaker’s voice. His back went ramrod straight and he didn't notice when Ion Storm finally put his meaning together.

Keeping his vocalizer low, Ion Storm agreed, “No, friend, you are right. You can escape through the grating, and you have to get the hell out of here. Both you and Prime, while you can.” Snapping his fingers, Ion Storm re-captured Sideswipe’s attention. “I have to talk to Megatron first, alright? He has your Prime and won’t want to release him.”

Ion Storm realized Sideswipe wasn't getting any of that, and so he gestured as he tried again to explain himself. He pointed first at himself, and then at Megatron’s back plates, just visible across the side cave.

Sideswipe nodded, understanding the drift if not the words. Then Ion Storm strode away. Sideswipe watched him disappear into the darkness, his gaze bouncing between Ion Storm and Sunstreaker. Then he started inching towards his brother, because the internal fluid coating the yellow frame was worrying.

Sunstreaker’s biolighting was so faint Sideswipe hadn’t even noticed his brother was there until he spoke, and Sunstreaker sank back into a weak sleep as Sideswipe crept closer and closer.

 

***

“Lord Megatron?”

A servo placed on his shoulder woke him, and Megatron sat up with a jolt. Waking a second time, Megatron was himself once again and blinked as memories of fleeing a yellowish gas cloud filtered through his consciousness.

Still nestled close, Optimus Prime remained motionless.

“Ion Storm,” Megatron said as he recognized his soldier, and then looked around in confusion. “Where are we? I cannot remember anything past fleeing from gas clouds.”

As he spoke, Megatron glanced up at Ion Storm’s eye-shine in the dark and had a sudden vision of submissive, pleasing licks along his intakes. In a sordid sort of way it reminded him of Starscream and a shiver ran up his back strut, along with a pang of loss. But now was not the time, and Megatron pushed that feeling away and forced himself to pay attention to his soldier's report.

“Bad news, sir.” Ion Storm slipped in close, “I talked to one of the Junkions. They weren’t as affected by the gas and have been awake for joors now. It seems some of the Quints survived the crash. They arrived in a troop transport and attacked everyone after we went down.”

Megatron stiffened for the news and answered his next question on his own. “Then … we are their captives.”

“It seems so,” Ion Storm said, and then pointed towards the faint glow in the distance. “That’s the only cave entrance. They’ve sealed it off with titan-steel grates and shackles. No idea where we actually are in the penitentiary. Neither does anyone else, according to comms.”

It was at this point that Megatron realized his internal comms were blinking. He immediately connected to both the command comm line and to general comms. General was a mess of confused voices and mumbled whines, but the command comm was very quiet. He wasn’t happy to see Onslaught’s tag offline, but Thundercracker and Long Haul were connected and he demanded a report from them.

Megatron split his attention between the three mechs filling him in on what he’d missed, and then spared the processor power for a fourth concern.

“That would be the door to our pen, then?” Megatron asked while resting his servo on Prime’s smooth back, his fingers splayed between Prime’s bare shoulders. He could feel Prime's back strut beneath the soft mesh and began rubbing Prime in brisk circles, trying to wake him.

“Yes, sir,” Ion Storm said while glancing back at his own nest. He could see insistent blue optics bouncing between him and Sunstreaker. _Oh Primus._ He hoped his carrying mech stopped short of bothering the vicious Autobot. Beauty was only paint deep, as the saying went. It was very true in this case. Provoking the front-liner would only end in tears.

Nervous, Ion Storm forced himself to focus and turned back to Megatron. “The Junkions say they already tried to break through, but the Allicons have energy weapons.”

“Hm. That will complicate things,” Megatron said while continuing his efforts to coax Prime to wake. He grew worried to have so much trouble rousing him. He added a second hand, and then cupped around Prime's belly, fingers massaging gently as he murmured, “Optimus, _wake up_.”

Ion Storm licked his lips. He was just about to foray into an uncomfortable conversation when he froze. Megatron was working Prime from both sides now, and optic-shine reflected off his lip plating.

Now Ion Storm was staring at those lips, feeling put off.

_Did I... ?_

Ion Storm blanched. _That can't be right..._ and then he shook his helm with a shudder. The thought of such boldness with Mighty Megatron made his spark quail.  _No, of course not. I'm still alive, aren't I? Must have been dreaming,_ and neither mech noticed the other’s reaction, both disregarding the almost irretrievable memory-files as gas-induced dreams.

“Allicons,” Megatron's denta bared for the foul glyph, his fields now filled with belligerence. It was that feeling, along with the increasing pressure-rubs along his back strut and belly that finally roused Prime.

Kicking up and away from the too-welcoming abyss, Prime surged towards consciousness instead. Another few aggressive strokes along his strut and he jolted awake. He rumbled, confused, and tried to roll over, though he had some difficulty for the unbalancing weight on his front. Then the hand on his belly became two.

Megatron cupped and lifted and helped Prime turn and get his knees under him. Pleasure swirled through Megatron’s electromagnetic fields for the handling, twinning with the aggression still pulsing there. Prime stared down at the blurry limbs wrapped around him, holding him, and then Prime rubbed at his helm and optics.

“Good, good, I was growing concerned,” Megatron murmured. He braced a knee on each side and was half bent over Prime. Freeing one hand, he continued to stroke along his counterpart’s back strut even as Prime looked up at him with curiosity.

Confused by his surroundings, Prime dropped his hand down to his belly, now taut. He stared at Megatron, surprised. There was that crooning tone again ... and where was he? Why was it so dark? Then his fingers encountered heavily plated ones, splayed wide in support. Then Prime huffed in wonder when he shifted and pain _didn’t_ surge from his lower body. His fingers dropped further, feeling along his valve.

At the same time, Ion Storm was gathering himself for the storm he was about to invoke. He could tell by the way Megatron was acting that his suggestion to set the carrying mechs free wasn't going to be taken so well, but there was nothing for it. He was just about to speak when Megatron interrupted him.

“Give us a moment,” Megatron ordered as he turned back towards Prime.

Ion Storm hesitated, and then nodded. He had no choice, really. He turned away, back towards his carrying mech who seemed intent on bothering the vicious yellow Autobot.

Then Ion Storm saw Sideswipe already nestled against that pretty yellow chest plate. He resembled nothing sort of a small, edible tidbit cuddling a snoozing Cyberwolf, and he froze.

 

***

The weird Junkion was back.

A clatter of disturbed garbage alerted Sunstreaker to the mech on approach, though he was too weak to move anymore. It was that same pot-belly, though. The lanky mech was hard to see in the deep darkness of the cave, but Sunstreaker he was positive it was the same mech that had bothered him and …

... Breakdown.

Sunstreaker swallowed for the reminder. He was no stranger to loss, not after four million years of war, and so tried to ignore the endless ache in his half-spark. More so the irritating Junkion that was creeping ever closer to him. Sunny was used to such illicit looks in the dark from envious, covetous mechs, and under normal circumstances he rather enjoyed the stares.

But not from _Junkions_.

Damned things didn't even _bathe_. He knew because he'd asked. The nasty trash-heaps had looked all offended and asked him what he had against cheese. Everyone else had looked confused ... what's a cheese? ... but he'd been to Earth.

 _Gross_.

Now he could see only flashes of the skinny body, highlighted by blue eye-shine. Then it started _clicking_ at him. Those kind-looking optics crept closer, looking concerned for him.

 _Whatever_.

Yes, he was wrecked to hell and back. No, he didn’t want anything from a _Junkion_. Not even pity.

Especially not pity!

Trying to sit up, Sunstreaker swayed in a wave of vertigo and then sagged back down. A few rough in-vents, and even his righteous anger collapsed around him as his systems callously informed him of an impending soft reboot for repairs. Non-negotiable. Don’t like it? Too damned bad. Stop with all the fighting already!

With a groan, Sunstreaker fell back into a semi-conscious state.

***

Megatron slid back down into the nest moments later.

He settled down opposite from Prime, and could tell his counterpart was too distracted to pay him any mind. He hoped that meant he no longer registered as a threat to Prime’s subconscious, or at least not a serious one. Settling close, he watched Prime's every move, trying to gauge his mood. Prime didn’t _seem_ furious, but he couldn’t quite see his valve for the roundness of his belly in the way.

The sordid evidence of their interfacing was there, though Prime was having trouble with said belly, and resorted to checking over everything with his fingers instead. They plunged inside as Prime checked his softer places, and he did look pleased with what he found.

Or rather, what Prime failed to find.

 _That vile device is gone_... though Megatron had no idea how that had come to be and he leaned over to get a better look. Prime's intimate port looked much happier than the last time he remembered seeing it. It remained alluring as ever, and his array dared warm for the sight.

Megatron watched with keen interest as Prime felt around the edges of his valve and then dipped inside. Prime's questing fingers probed the nodes and then pulled back. There was evidence of transfluid, just the faintest smears, and Prime had to squint before he could see them, even microns away from his face. Then he sat back with a troubled frown.

There it was, the moment Megatron was dreading, and Prime looked both relieved and pensive. He was overjoyed to be free of the foul apparatus and his gestation tank felt so much better, but he couldn’t remember anything? He wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or worried by this turn of events.

Reaching out, Megatron laid his hand on Prime’s shoulder. “I appear to be at blame for that.” He sounded contrite, because he was, and his fingers motioned in an unconscious gesture of embarrassment. They needed to work together to care for their shared responsibility. He intended to be supportive and wasn’t trying to take advantage of his counterpart.

Overly much, anyway.

All of this painted a picture for Prime, one he could actually understand. He peered at Megatron, taking his measure, and then pointed at his valve. He frowned and then pointed back at Megatron with questioning eyes. _You did this?_

Megatron winced. “To my regret, it appears so–”

Prime didn’t understand the words, but Megatron’s tone and unconscious gestures amounted to a confession. That he understood, and he grew instantly cross. _While_ _I was asleep?!_

Prime did the first thing that came to mind and the punch Megatron was waiting for finally landed. It was how they'd always addressed their grievances with each other, and yet, it was an exchange Megatron no longer held a craving for. But he took the hit without a word, though he didn't back off in the slightest. He did raise both servos in another unconscious gesture; this one of apologetic surrender.

Yet another gesture Prime understood. Hands still balled, he ceased his attack, as he’d always been the more forgiving of the two. But he wasn’t pleased with the discovery, even if it was to his own benefit.

Rumbling his displeasure, Prime glowered at his counterpart … _expected better of you …_ and that was true. There were a few lines neither had ever crossed with the other and that was one of them, even during the worst of their battles. Honor between leaders was a thing, though admittedly only to a point.

Megatron _was_ a Decepticon, after all.

Then Megatron sat back with a touch of realization. They were actually _talking_. Not with the electronic glyphs of Neocybex or the graceful signs of Hand, but they were still exchanging basic concepts. His face plates brightened for the realization. He had been so focused on the rhyme and rule of communication, on his love of perfect grammar and form, that he hadn’t seen what was right in front of his nasal sensors. Elated with the insight, he abandoned those other loves for a time and just reached out and tapped his own helm and shook his head.

 _I wasn’t awake either,_ was what Megatron meant.

Prime blinked, optics refusing to focus, but he still picked up on the meaning. The instant sense of déjà vu troubled him. It was obvious now that he and Megatron had interfaced, but the last time this had happened was because of the Quintesson. Prime peered up at the protective blur looming over him and sensed there wasn’t any threat from that quarter.

Then Prime looked around, not recognizing his surroundings, not understanding how he’d arrived in this dark place. A ball of disquiet lodged in his chest and Prime spread his hands in general confusion ... _how? Why?_

Megatron reached out and touched Prime’s helm, touched his own, and then pointed at the faint glow of light in the distance. The confining door wasn't visible to Prime, but the distant light was. Prime stared for a moment and then looked back at Megatron in confusion.

Then Megatron curled his fingers and waggled them like a cephalopod. An instant later there was a familiar crackle of energy, followed by a yelp of pain from a too-bold Junkion. Stabbing his pain stick through the bars, an Allicon's distinct, gravelly voice snarled warning.

Hitting the deck, Prime slid back down into the deepest part of the nest, grinding his denta.

_Quintesson!_

***

 

Creeping close, Sideswipe reached out with shivering fingers.

Sideswipe's servos hovered over his brother's face, just close enough to feel the feverish electromagnetic fields, but not touching. He heard Sunstreaker moan a denial. It emerged as some feeble combination of _get_ _the frag away from me_ and a goodly amount of _touch me and die you freak_.

Sideswipe understood his brother’s noises and backed away. He wasn't offended or hurt in the least, because he was every bit the Lambo his brother was and knew _exactly_ where Sunny was coming from.

Damned ugly.

Sideswipe felt damned ugly in comparison to what he used to be … no matter how hard Ion Storm would have argued that. He was every bit as horrified of himself as Sunstreaker was of him. But the important thing was that Sunny was going to be okay. They'd suffered and recovered from all sorts of injuries together and he had a sense for what his brother could handle. He could tell Sunny was weak, but his half of their spark pulsed strongly. Sunny's wounds were sealing over, and he wasn’t leaking anymore, though he still needed a medic.

Sideswipe wanted to comfort his brother, but Sunstreaker didn’t give idle warnings.

Hesitating, Sideswipe felt torn. Beyond the fact he couldn’t take even one hit from his brother, joining their electromagnetic fields could mean Sunstreaker might recognize him. Right now he needed to keep his own identity to himself, just until he didn’t look so ... so utterly violated.

Sideswipe loved his brother, but they were fiercely competitive too, forever at war with each other. He was accustomed to being powerful and almost as beautiful as his brother, and that meant his current state filled him with anxiety and shame. Those feelings were his constant companions now, the strongest feelings he felt since Ion Storm's attentions had tamed his coding fear.

Down to his deepest, innermost being, Sideswipe didn't want his brother to see him like this. Maybe it was selfish. No, scratch that. It _was_ selfish, but that was how he felt. No small amount of his self-worth remained captive to what his brother thought of him.

Sideswipe could climb out of this hell the Quintesson had buried him in, but it would be vastly easier without his brother there to see him scrabble. He knew Sunny felt the same, remembered how Sunstreaker had refused to open up to him during the whole headmaster fiasco.

Sunstreaker offered another threatening groan, and his feeble fingers curled into a fist. _Stay away._ Rejection didn’t get much clearer than that … but Sunstreaker looked beyond distraught. Half curled up in a ball, his miserable optics were narrow slits and his lips a harsh, aching line. Remembering how his new friend had collapsed, it wasn’t hard for Sideswipe to piece together why. 

The deadlock ended when Sunstreaker extended an olive branch without meaning to as the lights flickered and faded from his optics for a few moments. His crashing offline, likely for internal repairs, meant touching him was safe now.

At least for the moment. 

Seizing his chance, Sideswipe reached out with trembling fingers and then touched Sunstreaker’s face in greeting. He was relieved when his mostly unconscious twin seemed to recognize him.

Sunny moaned and his fingers uncurled.

Sideswipe nuzzled his neck cables ... _hey_ _Sunshine, it's me, just relax and you’ll be okay ..._ wrapping his arms around his brother, Sideswipe hummed, sharing his voice. He could hear his brother vocalize in response though he didn't recognize the sounds, and the notes were soft and needy.

... _I_ _miss you too._

Sunstreaker was half-dreaming and the feel of Sideswipe was bittersweet to him. It felt like a ghost touch of someone now gone. Still, he relaxed as his brother's fields caressed over him, and both sparks ached in remembrance.

Sideswipe felt his spark twirl and pulse faster within him and could tell his brother was feeling the same. Severed, both halves longed for reunification. Without thinking, from instinct borne of happier times, he reached out and felt along Sunstreaker’s chest seam, rubbing over his brother's aching spark chamber. Slim fingers slid along the groove to coax Sunstreaker open.

But then Sunstreaker tensed and groaned, feeling sudden unease for that illicit touch. _Shouldn’t have done that,_ and Sideswipe realized his mistake and backed off.

Sideswipe saw his brother’s lip plating twist and shrank back for his brother's confusion, retreating a little. Sunstreaker was very tetchy about being touched without permission. Coaxing another mech's spark chamber open like this could be strewn as a precursor to sexual violence. While Sideswipe already had permission and knew his twin would always welcome him under normal circumstances, right now they were both a hot mess. He couldn’t take even one confused hit from his brother.

But Sunstreaker _was_ venting better, and his half of their shared spark was calmer for their shared moment together. _He’s going to be okay..._ Sideswipe relaxed and scooted away, out of punching range to be safe.

It ended up being a very wise move.

***

Sunstreaker struggled back online, systems feeling a little better for the reboot, but unable to shake a feeling of being under threat. This wouldn’t be the first time some mech tried to sneak some touchy-feely when they thought he wasn’t conscious enough to protest.

Feeling glum, Sunstreaker rubbed at his chest plates and a sad look crossed his handsome face plates for his interrupted dream. Sideswipe’s ghost-touch faded away, his spark throbbed, and then he caught sight of the pot-bellied Junkion. The wreck was hovering nearby, too close for innocence and watching him with keen eyes and Sunstreaker put two and two together.

With a vicious snarl, Sunstreaker lunged forward at the sticky-fingered Junkion, lashing out. Too stiff and sore to be effective, he missed completely. Gratification soothed his rage when the lanky mech rolled away with a frantic yip.

“Was it you that fragging _groped_ me?” Sunstreaker’s lip plating curled in disgust. “I better not find fingerprints on my _paint_ , you freak.” The Junkion shrank back from him, then even further after a harsh stomp of his heel and a hateful, obscene twist of his fingers.

Ion Storm arrived an instant later, checking over the Junkion and coaxing him away. “He’s not going to hurt you.”

Letting Ion Storm pull him away from his brother, Sideswipe took Sunstreaker’s last few warnings to spark. He well recognized that murderous look from his brother, though normally it was the last thing a Decepticon ever saw. Directed at him, it was more than a little frightening. _Okay, okay, staying away now. Primus, Sunshine! Throttle back a little._ Sunstreaker’s rage made things easier, actually. He felt only a little less horrible about keeping his identity to himself.

Ion Storm sounded like he was trying to calm Sunstreaker, but Sideswipe could tell Sunny wasn’t in the mood for anything but a long, hard, brooding session. There was no calming him when he was like this, other than setting up a paint easel, his favorite set of paints, and then tricking him into a well-lighted space complete with a display of nice contrasts of light and shadow and then locking the surly fragger in to work out his frustrations.

No paints here, unfortunately…

Sunstreaker snorted. “He should be worried I am going to hurt him,” and Sunny followed that statement with another threatening gesture, _going to **get you** if you frag with me again._ He saw the Junkion flinch.

_Good._

Sunstreaker could tell his point was getting across.

“Not likely,” Ion Storm said and his vocalizer sounded friendly. His trine mates would have recognized his light tone as anything _but_ , had they been there to hear it. And yet he knew why the yellow Autobot was hurting so badly. He offered a touch of compassion instead of the aggression the guardian coding was sluicing down his lines.

“You were the one that painted the walls for the carrying Autobots, right?” Ion Storm called over his shoulder as he eased his carrying mech into their nest-hollow, as safe a spot as any to rest. 

Sunstreaker sniffed. He’d volunteered and Scavenger had convinced Mixmaster to make him a small set of basic paint colors, and he’d done his best with the pathetic mixtures and even more pathetic rags he’d been forced to use for paint work. Frag him, but he missed painting. ‘Sides always mixed up his colors and did setup for him when he was this miserable…now he would never see his brother again.

Ion Storm dropped to his knees in front of Sideswipe and offered his servos. After a quiet nod, Ion Storm pulled him closer and started rubbing his shoulders and back strut first, then working his way around for a belly rub.

Ion Storm grinned when Sideswipe relaxed and leaned against his fingers. “He’s one of the ones moving in. He can’t talk, but I bet he’s just trying to thank you for it.”

Sunstreaker frowned a little to hear the Junkion wasn’t a Junkion after all. _Whatever_. But he was suddenly very glad he’d missed.

“Frag off,” Sunstreaker said, though without his usual spirit. He hurt everywhere and didn’t feel like talking anymore. “Whatever. Just tell me when I can start pounding aliens.” He closed his optics and tuned out the noise, trying to drift back off, hoping to find his brother again in his dreams.

“Can you even fight?” Ion Storm asked. He watched the patrolling Allicon guard walk by the entrance again. “Because pounding aliens might be needed sooner rather than later, from the look of things.”

Sunstreaker grunted, "Keep bothering me and find out," and that threat was followed by an impatient series of clicks from down below.

Jazz was sounding well and truly peeved now. _The hell is goin’ on up there?_

Sideswipe winced. Oh right, he was supposed to be collecting Prime. ‘Sides waved at Jazz which prompted another series of incredulous clicks – _hurry the frag up mech!_ – and Sideswipe started shaking Ion Storm again.

Vocalizer low to avoid attention, Jazz’s irritable clicks continued as he groused up at the grating and Sideswipe.

Jazz had won the wrestling match, but Prowl seemed keen on another bout, insisting on returning to the Constructicons. Something about rare opportunities and the greater good, Jazz could guess, though his answer remained the same. _No fraggin’ way._   But far above, Jazz could hear heavy pedes, and he had the distinct impression Prowl was expecting company.

***

 

Ion Storm and Sideswipe headed towards where Prime was resting.

Only the tips of Prime's sleek blue audials were visible, with Megatron still hovering protectively over him. Megatron didn't seem to want any company and was just about to say something dismissive when Ion Storm forced the issue.

"Sir," Ion Storm said as he knelt down to one knee, "The Autobots can escape between the slats."

Slipping around Ion Storm, Sideswipe slid down next to Prime and started gesturing at him. Prime watched as Sideswipe pointed at his mouth and then at his belly, he made a motion for ... _something_. Then he shook his helm and pointed downwards.

None of Sideswipe's gestures made any sense to Megatron, but Prime must have understood what he meant. Megatron frowned when Prime sat up straight as if reminded of something critical. Megatron’s frown deepened when Prime tried to climb to his pedes, looking distressed.

“Too dangerous,” Megatron said, disregarding the idea without even considering it. Instead, he tried to coax Prime to settle back down while saying, “Most of Overlord’s gang has fled down below.”

Megatron offered Prime a reassuring squeeze and pointed at himself and then back at his counterpart. _You are safe with me. I will protect you and yours, for you are all mine now. Stay close, and we will handle this together._

“Safer than here,” Ion Storm said as he jerked his helm towards the tunnel opening and the Allicon soldier guarding them.

Prime was watching Megatron's servos as if trying to work out his meaning, but Sideswipe stole his attention back. Frowning, Megatron was just about to - _gently!_ \- evict the little troublemaker from Prime's direct vicinity when a new threat announced himself.

"A lean patch _that_ is, and now the cat's out of the bag!" and Prime turned towards the vicious blast of words and Megatron rose up tall as Wreck-Gar glowered down at him. The Junkion leader looked about ready to blow a gasket.

“Hiding her from me!” Wreck-Gar hissed, golden eyes wild with rage, "Put your head in a noose, an' I'll cook your goose!" and then one of Wreck-Gar's Junkions burst out of the trash, crying, “Crossing bad bridges!” The Junkion grabbed at his leader's arm and cried, “Lucy’s gone!”

Wreck-Gar shoved his mech away. He wasn't in the mood to listen. Watching the Allicon hurt dear Lucy had been bad enough, but realizing she’d been here the _entire time_ he’d been going out of his mind with worry for her ... it was the last straw.

“Taking a _load_ off his shoulders,” and Wreck-Gar's rage made him fearless as he stepped toward his adversary, his weapon lifted and at the ready. His eyes promised violence, the glint of light from his enemies' eyes reflected off his sharp, bared teeth. 

Responding to that threat, Megatron rose to his full height, his voice low and threatening. "That would be unwise. If you start this, I _will_ finish it."

"Gone away with the faeries," whispered a voice from a nearby trash drift. "Mad as the hatter," another agreed, and the trash piles heaved around them as the other Junkions crept forward, forming a large ring around Wreck-Gar and Megatron.

"Junkions!" Megatron snapped at the garbage around him, "Explain this situation to your leader. If I have to, it will be with my bare hands."

Several Junkions appeared out of the trash piles, reaching for their leader, all of them looking fearful. "Lucy, Lucy," they whispered with matching, lilting tones, "Lucy's lost her head."

"Lucy's here! Right here!" Wreck-Gar howled. He stepped forward, his weapon bouncing heedlessly as he pointed at a confused-looking Prime, "Resewn her threads! Rebuilt her shreds!"

Another Junkion, this one older, took in the glassy look in his leader's optics. Frowning, the elder gripped his leader's weapon by the pointy end and leaned in for direct eye contact. "He's _dead_ , Jim."

"Threads! Threads!"

"Torture King killed her dead, off with her head," reminded another somber junk-pile. He flinched when Wreck-Gar shrank back, but still held up an oil-stained sack with a whisper, "Remember what the dormouse said."

Wreck-Gar looked inside and then made a strangled sound while his mechs crept in close. They dragged him a few paces from Megatron, trying to break through the terrible guilt-haze that clouded his mind. They surrounded him, patted him, shook and pulled at him, all the while whispering comfort and condolences, so desperate to save their beloved leader from his mental malaise.

“Can’t live like this,” Wreck-Gar cried to them from across the grief-abyss, “I have to apologize. She was right! She warned me and I didn't listen and she was right! Can't end like this, she'll never forgive me!”

The eldest of the Junkions pressed in close, his fingers straining as he held his leader at bay. “Not until the next life.”

Wreck-Gar stared down at the sack in his servos, near lost to grief. He and his kin had suffered endless horrors, but none bore the weight of responsibility as he did. He was all but crushed under the weight of it, but he wasn't gone yet. He could still see the dark path towards grim reality, though embracing it would be agonizing, cutting deeper than any weapon ever made.

Then Wreck-Gar’s optics caught on Prime.

Prime and Sideswipe were sneaking towards Ion Storm's hollow when the trash shifted under Prime’s feet. Sideswipe stumbled and grabbed him, and the unbalanced Prime promptly face-planted into the soft mess. Getting back up, Prime glanced back at an oblivious Megatron with a huff of mild concern – _please tell me he didn't see that_ – and it was a look he'd seen a thousand times on _her_ face and Wreck-Gar tumbled head-over-heels down the only lighted path he could see.

Shoving his pleading mechs back, Wreck-Gar brandished his crude spear, fashioned with haste from the trash around them while enduring hours of spark-rending worry. He stomped the last step forward to stand fearless before Megatron.

"You've no weapon, already beaten! This fight is _mine_. Now hand over me darling Lucy," Wreck-Gar demanded, even as his mechs moaned and wailed and dropped their helms.

Megatron stood his ground. “I must admit," he murmured for Wreck-Gar's audials alone, "I was hoping you’d start something so I might kill you cleanly in battle. Perhaps I owe you that much. For while I am beholden to Prime to share leadership _, you_ have outlived your usefulness to me.”

Wreck-Gar snorted and raised his spear. “More’n just me here, mech.”

“Gone with the faeries,” the other Junkions agreed amongst themselves, but they heeded their leader’s call. Numerous junk-piles pulled themselves out of the dreck and hefted their hastily assembled weapons, little more than pointy sticks. Even a dented, spindly-fingered Junkion stepped forward to fight, for come hell or high water, Junkions were loyal.

Ion Storm tensed, and Sunstreaker was already climbing back to his pedes, and Megatron glanced at them, and then turned back towards Wreck-Gar.

“No,” Megatron answered as he slid into a battle stance, “Not for long.”

***

 

Megatron and Wreck-Gar were battling above them now, but Optimus Prime and Sideswipe were too distracted to watch.

It took some effort to get Optimus to transform through the grate, and everyone had to help. Optimus’ gestation tank was much fuller now, his belly tighter, and he struggled to work his way through. Finally the last of his parts slipped through the bars.

Reforming below, Optimus stole a moment to peer up through the bars, searching for a large, dark blur. The beast coding remained calm, but that deep sense of safety and contentment he’d been enjoying faded the further he was from the hollowed nest and that sensuous, heavy scent. Anxiety was starting to replace his calm. Surrounded by enemies, fleeing from his protective mate was the worst possible plan and the beast coding was encouraging him to return.

With a sudden rush of anxiety, Optimus realized he didn’t want to leave, and froze accordingly. Sideswipe and Jazz both misunderstood the source of Optimus' hesitation and they gestured at him insistently. _Not our fight. Don’t even think about it! Get back to others now. Need fuel. Need you._ Now Sideswipe and Jazz were pulling at him ... _Come on! Have to go!_... and their worried clicks pricked him and reminded him of his duties.

Optimus’ momentary confusion shattered for their worried faces and tugging fingers. He squared his shoulders and turned after them and nodded ... _let’s go ..._ and they smiled.

 _This_ was their Prime.

Hurrying away with them, Optimus looked over at the perturbed Datsun riding piggy-back on Jazz's shoulders. Optimus smiled at his second-in-command, pleased to see Prowl was awake. It gave him renewed hope for Ratchet and the others. He clicked at Prowl in greeting, and then hesitated when his optics focused at random on Prowl's new door-wings.

Another blink, another useful focus, and Optimus recoiled from the revealed anger on Prowl's face plates and ... _why is Prowl’s arms tied behind his back?!_

Jazz clicked at him _... later ..._ and then they could hear stomping pedes above them, most certainly from the heavyweight murder machines heading down from the higher levels. Their suspicions were confirmed when Prowl perked up for the shouts echoing down from above, along with more rattling from the descending Constructicons.

Warning shouts from below called back. The voices were harsh and alien, and it was clear that the remnants of Overlord’s gang were not appreciating the disruption. They sounded far too close for comfort.

Jazz hissed warning and the little group of carrying mechs retreated. They ducked around columns to try and stay out of sight. Jazz directed them towards the far stairwell; the one Devastator had bent to reach the Courtyard. The space between grating and wall was larger for the bent slats, and Optimus transformed through them with little difficulty.

Down and down they fled until they reached the lowest level, and then slipped beneath. The hollow was not far away. But they couldn’t avoid notice forever as the anxious gang members were prowling around the lower levels. Finally noticing the slinking Autobots, shouts ensued from some of the alien gang for the nervous little shadows below. “No more Cybertronians!” One of the alien mechs roared down at the nervous Autobots, stomping on the grating.

Attracting attention was the last thing Optimus wanted, and he began to hurry the others back towards deeper cover.

“Grab them,” The flight-enabled Lithonian called out, “We could use them as leverage against the Cybertronians above us!” But without a true leader, the gang members were listless and directionless, and no one moved to obey. At most, one of them threw some scrap down at the Autobots, poorly thrown and easily evaded.

Optimus couldn’t understand the shouts, but he bristled for the heckling alien voices. There was no question they were hostile. He and the others stuck to the edges after that, and then dashed the last little way to the hollow and down.

 

* * *

 

“This is most unusual,” The sub-commander of _The Benign Intervention_ muttered. The enigmatic face of the blue Cybertronian on his screen was unreadable, not that he liked talking to Cybertronians anyway.

This one was especially unsettling.

Soundwave felt the same way about the organic on his display. Still, he needed information. He was far from home and still trying to locate his leader while fronting a rescue mission all on his own. This meatbag could lead him to Megatron. “Information trade request is unusual," Soundwave agreed, "but warranted."

Around him, the hum of his shuttle's recently augmented engines remained a steady irritant. Converted for long-range travel, the engines were too large for the shuttle's frame, and the resulting hum was hard to ignore. Worse, it meant he had to strain to make out the organic's flapping-meat speech.

"I have access to the data you are requesting," the sub-commander said. "But you are Cybertronian and we are under orders to–"

"Ruling is currently in dispute," Soundwave reminded the sub-commander. "Quintesson military currently active in Galactic Council space. Information on troop movements: invaluable."

Contacted by a frantic refugee coordinator, Soundwave had been dismayed to learn that Optimus Prime and his party had run afoul of the Galactic Council. Debating with himself, he'd finally felt forced to intervene.

Images of sad-looking carrying mechs plucking vile-looking restraints from their pitiful-looking bodies and the Prime himself waddling... _waddling!_...around a Hyperion cell had cinched it.

Soundwave had taken the plunge and contacted Rodimus Prime.

One short conversation later and the disillusioned Soundwave had ordered his shuttle's engines adjusted for the journey and set out to rescue Prime himself. Now he was bearings-deep in Mauler territory, almost halfway to Uytis. Forced to take furtive routes, he did everything he could to keep out of sensor range of the aggressive Maulers. This meant progress was slow and the cycles crawled by in the small confines of the shuttle. No further updates, but Soundwave was certain the carrying Autobots were still alive because, well, Prime.

Soundwave remained hopeful he would arrive before things got too ugly. He'd even brought emergency supplies in case of emergence, and maybe a toy or two. Call him a sucker for squeaky little newborn sparklings – because it was true – and dear sweet _Primus_ may this little rescue mission never get back to Megatron. The things this might do to his reputation…unspeakable.

Meanwhile, Soundwave was _still_ trying to locate his missing leader. No luck getting more than a transcript of the trial, and he found no trace of Megatron in any recent Quintesson recordings. Megatron’s trail had gone cold. Growing desperate, he was giving the direct approach a try and opened a communication line with _The Benign Intervention_.

Hence the meatbag currently fouling up his view.

"Inquiry in regards to mechs captured during Quintesson invasion of Emoojora," Soundwave needled, "Request for visual recordings of mechs taken prisoner by your vessel for identification purposes only. Required data not damaging to Galactic Council interests. Quintesson military movements: very damaging.”

After much badgering, the sub-commander finally agreed to provide the security footage as the chance to impress Captain K’gard was too enticing to pass up.

Soundwave received the data packet and transferred his datafile and then killed the connection. He began running translation programs even as he rumbled in relief when the organic alien’s face winked out.

“Unnatural,” Soundwave murmured to himself. “Organics are an affront to nature.”

Ravage perked up from his position under Soundwave’s chair. “They stink. Never met one I didn’t hate.” Then he spat and growled at an encroaching Bob and the Insecticon huffed and plodded away. Creeping back to his corner, Bob was currently banished to the far corner of the shuttle as per the panther’s decree.

Ravage’s tail flicked back and forth in pleased triumph.

“Can we come out yet?” Rumble and Frenzy begged in stereo from within Soundwave’s chest-dock.

“ **No** ,” Ravage, Soundwave, and the shuttle’s computer answered in unison, unwilling to deal with the Terrible Twosome in such close quarters. The twins groaned and settled back down, but they knew better then to argue for parole. Oh, had that ship sailed; right about the time they’d trained Bob to howl the Empyrean Suite.

Accustomed to a certain amount of chaos, Soundwave ignored the twin’s grumbling and the embattled mech-animals. Leaning forward, he began to play the first of the recordings and ticked off the names of mechs he recognized.

Nautilator, Swindle, Thrust, and Hook with Skywarp and Scavenger. There was Thundercracker, the golden mech that broke his face that one time in Iacon, one of the Dynobots, and the mech beneath him was...and then Soundwave’s plating flared in shock as what he was seeing registered and he squinted at the vid screen in desperate need of details _...how in the name of Primus does that even fit in there?!_

Then he jolted upright in his chair for Ravage’s sudden spitting, as stumpy, hustling legs pounded a drumbeat across the floor and an almighty howl filled his sensitive audials.

Bob’s joyful visage – jaws agape, spittle trailing in random spirals – filled Soundwave's visuals as Bob hurled himself forward full throttle (who knew such a squat creature could attain such speeds!) and vaulted over the yowling Ravage… his massive form arriving at the Promised Land at last.

Soundwave toppled backward as a mass of heavy Insecticon runt barreled into his chest, his pedes waving in the air as the chair sailed back and crashed and Bob finally lavished upon Soundwave the full face plate lick-kisses he so richly deserved for owning a lap.

“Bob! Bob!” Soundwave shouted, half-drowning in drool. “Bob!...(lick)..sit!...(lick)…sit Bob!..(lick)… _Sit_!”

Bob sat – _such_ a good Bob! – and his antenna wiggled in delight as he continued to pin Soundwave to the floor and rain happy Bob-kisses all over his visor, leaving goopy trails of goop across the polished surface.

At this point, Soundwave realized his choice of commands could have been better phrased. He finally stopped squirming and just patted the deliriously happy Bob, who disagreed _entirely_ as sitting was his specialty…anywhere, anytime an Insecticon needs sat, Bob was _there_.

Red-slit optics peered out from under the console and Ravage continued his furious hissing and spitting, thwarted and _most_ displeased about it.

“Ravage,” Soundwave sighed while wiping at his visor, “Negativity towards new cassette is not–”

“Hey Sounders, check the screen!” Frenzy said, giving an excited little wiggle from inside his docking station.

Then Soundwave’s optics dilated wide as Mighty Megatron’s visage flashed into view on the vid screen, standing tall next to a face-palming Onslaught, mouth hiding a mighty grin, one mighty servo curled to cover a mighty cough. 

“He’s _not_ a cassette yet!” the panther screeched in outrage, claws out, tail lashing, already plotting revenge.

 _"Megatron!”_ Soundwave cried out, arms and legs pin-wheeling for sheer joy. “I have located our glorious leader!” and Bob threw his head back and howled; delighted that Soundwave was delighted and noisily joined in the merry-making.

 

* * *

 

Heavy pede steps clunked down, slow and steady and cautious. A brassy voice lifted in song, and by the way the glyphs rolled, the strange tune sung in some foreign tongue could only be some dirty bar ditty about big, bouncing wheels and shapely bumpers.

“–Absorbent and yellow and porous–”

In the distance and floating wide came the cheery sounds of a delirious jeep singing his spark out, “–drop on the deck and flop like a–”

Brawl grinned.

 

 < Found ‘em. >

 

* * *

 

They nearly lost Wheeljack to the dreams.

Both he and Perceptor lay huddled in the hollow when the returning Autobots stumbled over them. Finding them lying together, it was obvious they had been standing guard while awaiting the return of their leader. Unconscious, both showed signs of having lost a vicious fight. Leaking internal fluid from their intakes, Wheeljack's surgery wound was open again and Perceptor had several new dents.

Grieved to find them in such a state, Optimus Prime blamed himself, and perhaps rightly so. Sideswipe's electromagnetic fields also pulsed with guilt. But it was Optimus' decision to follow after him that had left his Autobots so vulnerable.

Pulled back into the safety of the sunken ship, Wheeljack and Perceptor were lain out and tended by their comrades.

 _Untie him now_ , Optimus insisted of Jazz, who unbound Prowl with great reluctance, acting as if he expected something bad to happen. Prowl just snorted at him and stepped back.

Optimus handled the field patching while 'Sides and Jazz fed everyone and Prowl edged towards the hollow entrance. But the instant all fuel tanks were happy, an irked Jazz roared after Prowl, hauling him back.

Turning towards the wrestling mechs, Optimus ended the quarreling with a commanding rumble, _enough of that! And_ _for the last time! Everyone stays inside!_ Pointing at the bulkhead, he snapped his fingers and Sideswipe hurried and closed off the ship's entrance as Jazz and Prowl began gesture-arguing like an old couple.

_-why won't you let me leave! Why didn't you tell me somethin' was wrong! I can take care of myself! Pull the other one baby! Sick of your interfering! Why don' you trust me! You never listen to me! This isn't your fault so let me help! Don’t tell me what to do! I told you we were through! Always savin' your bacon and this is how you-_

Their hands flashed back and forth like blaster fire.

In between patching wounds, wiping down frames, and trying to calm a surly medic, Optimus was too busy to pay them any mind. He was hard at work beating himself up over the situation. The loss of the coding fear had calmed him so much he'd clung to that source of comfort without thinking. Even now he was only anxious, not fearful. The coding still urged him to find his mate, but the pain below and sheer terror was gone and that was a massive relief. And yet his mechs had paid the price for his comfort, for his lack of vigilance.

Sideswipe was also calm, and stood back and watched his Prime. Fingers twisting, he shrank into his frame as the astro-seconds passed and Optimus struggled to wake the two scientists.

Optimus was warming up his mental flail for some serious self-flagellation when Perceptor finally awoke.

Perceptor's first act was to greet Prime with a relieved gesture... _you have returned!_...and then waved off the apologies. Already feeling better for the belly-full of fuel and the medi-patches, he assured Optimus he was alright _...yes, yes, I'll be fine..._ and he confirmed their suspicions straight away: the Ammonites had attacked not long after Jazz left to rescue Prime and Sideswipe. They had wanted Prowl, though he didn't know why.

_Decepticons!_

Jazz was insistent, and kept pointing at the chipped red chevron on Prowl’s head and then back at his own optics. _That’s why! They are up to something!  
_

All the flailing caught Perceptor’s attention. He caught sight of Prowl and Jazz glowering at each other, nasal sensor to nasal sensor, visor flashing, door-wings twitching and his reaction was most pure.

_...oh thank Primus! You saved Prowl too!_

Perceptor interrupted his own gestures over and over to scratch at his helm, prompting much concern from Optimus. Sleeping was fine, not waking up was not fine, and Optimus fretted over him. After waving his leader away, Perceptor settled back to rest as Optimus returned his attention to Wheeljack. Full of fuel and helm patched up, 'Jack still wouldn't wake.

Sideswipe was having flashbacks to the day they’d lost Bumblebee to the dreams, and he stifled the urge to go over and hug his distraught leader.

Optimus fussed and fussed over Wheeljack, growing more and more upset, until the engineer finally responded to all the concerned rubbing, anxious stroking, frightened patting, terrified shaking, and insistent diesel engine rumbles.

Wheeljack awoke to relieved blue optics and relaxed into a massive bear hug. Then the apologies. Lots of them, along with reassuring shoulder squeezes, and then Ratchet had had enough of being ignored.

**GRUMBLE!**

Abandoned for a full day and a half, Ratchet's grumbles were _epic_. Now reassured that Wheeljack and Perceptor would be okay, Optimus turned his attention to his old friend. Pulling Ratchet close, he murmured his apologies and did what he could to calm the grumble-waterfall. But all the apologies in the world weren’t enough to calm the surly medic.

Ratchet wanted Optimus.

Optimus sat down next to Ratchet and laid his heavy servo across the back of his oldest friend. He rumbled low in his throat, engine thrumming, and started rubbing the medic’s back strut in comforting strokes. _I am here. I regret you were left alone._

Around them, everyone was settling down, all but Jazz and Prowl, who were still arguing like it was going out of style. Perhaps that wasn’t surprising; any sort of conversation took massive amounts of time.

 _Grumble, grumble, grumble,_ Ratchet continued to complain, his engine hiccuping with unhappiness. Optimus frowned and gave the red and white grumbling blur a sad look to rival any number of kicked turbo-puppies.

Optimus looked upward at the ceiling, remembering a dark blur, remembering the sounds of battle. His thoughts were swirls of memory-files, constructed of feelings, not words.

 _This is not good._ _I wish you were awake, old friend. I need your insight with this. The others are scratching at themselves. Just like Bumblebee did before we lost him to the dreams. I am worried for us all. The Quintesson are invading the penitentiary. I have no way to stop them. I'm not sure what Megatron is up to. Jazz thinks something is wrong. Now I can't trust his plans will be any good for us._

Pouring his spark out without words, Optimus continued to rub along the medic’s shoulders as he tried to reflect on their situation. The touch calmed him, the interaction doing as much to settle his unhappy spark as it comforted Ratchet. Slowly, he began to reconnect with the deep ocean beneath his churning reality.

Ratchet relaxed for the touch, even leaned into it, but it did not stop the complaining. _Grumble, grumble, rumble,_ Ratchet’s engine grunted, peevish over his situation.

 _I know exactly how you feel,_ Optimus smiled at the other, squeezing his medic’s shoulder with endless gentleness. He glanced over as Sideswipe crept towards him, climbing towards the piles of scavenged bedding that served as a communal berth.

Optimus sighed and at least that deep sound was something he still remembered how to make. _I'm glad we had this talk, Ratchet. You always know just what to say._

Settling down, Optimus allowed Sideswipe to nestle next to him as he arranged Ratchet against him. More than anything, he wanted to rest after all of the stress. It was growing hot outside and moving around wasn’t ideal.

 _We will talk about your disobedience later,_ Optimus warned Sideswipe, and the Lambo just nodded. He felt terrible for what had happened to the others. His electromagnetic fields reflected his remorse, but too much had happened to just let this slide.

Ratchet’s engine turned over once more – _grumble_ – and then settled into a soothed rhythm as Optimus’ electromagnetic field resumed its impression of the deep blue sea.

A few joors later, Optimus cycled to wakefulness, more insistent grumpy noises rousing him. The sounds were directly in his audial, and he realized he had rolled atop Ratchet in his recharge, and the old medic was squirming in protest.

Optimus jerked when he was smacked smartly. He was amazed when the swat came again, the medic moving _purposefully_ , whacking at the heavy body atop him with irritated intention. Shocked, he rolled off and Ratchet tilted his helm back and looked up at Optimus with sharp blue optics.

Optimus’ high-pitched chirps of sheer delight were anything but dignified.

Ratchet blinked at him and quirked an optic ridge at all of the joyful noises. _Really now, Optimus? This is over the top._ He opened his intakes to say as much then panicked instead. Memory-files recalled pertinent details in an unhappy rush and Ratchet pointed at his throat cabling where his vocalizer was, but also kept clutching at his helm.

Optimus knew the feeling, oh _Primus,_ how he understood what Ratchet was feeling. The madness of knowing he should know something, remembering he knew something, remembering he should know the very words and yet not being able to speak, not being able to understand what was being said.

It was a constant, maddening itch and the only way to quiet it was to stop aggravating it, which meant stop trying to remember the past, stop trying to remember words and that they should mean something. It took some getting used to. It was hard to live solely in the moment, and there were repercussions.

Optimus offered his servo to his old friend, remembering the custom of asking to touch now that his old friend was online. Ratchet may have wanted him close while he was unconscious, but now that he was awake, he may need his space.

He needn’t have worried.

Ratchet hit him like a wrecking ball, and Optimus Prime enveloped his old friend in the biggest bear hug he possessed, surely the most massive of hugs in all the history of the Primes.

 


	17. Tenacity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the ties that bind become the cords used to strangle the alien races.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS.** My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :) 
> 
> Further Warning: Allicons doing mean, mean things to a poor little Datsun and Jeep. :(
> 
> Note: A little late posting this, I was visiting family for a week, very difficult week for writing. 0.0 Also I accidentally hit the post button before I was finished with my final go-over, so let me know if you see any mistakes.

Red eyes … glowing in the darkness.

The ranking Allicon dreamt of them. He could see their burning light, could feel cold fingers tightening around his throat as time ticked away.

Infighting among the penned assets broke out about midnight, rousing him from his rest. He’d intervened and they had broken up the fighting, but not before most of the captive Junkions fell before his old war-mech. At least he had forced his troopers to stop wasting the last of their shots on mechs already caged. Now the inside of the pen was quiet, except for the rustling from the surviving Cybertronians.

Scowling into the darkness, the ranking Allicon’s eyes caught and held on his old war-mech, recognizable by the glow of his purple and red biolighting. The shadowy figue stood triumphant, his dark plating splattered with several layers of internal fluid. The outermost layer was still wet. They steamed in the heat, wreathing the monster in a misty shroud. His optics glittered bright in the dark and the threats the Allicon wanted to hurl rattled and died in his throat.

“Lucy,” a crumpled form moaned from near the war-mech’s pedes.

The ranking Allicon’s scowl deepened when he realized all of the Junkions were dead or dying, a serious setback. Worse, he didn’t dare allow his troopers to waste any more stun-shots, nor open the pen doors to try to save any of them. And so he watched in helpless fascination as the blue-winged asset stepped forward to finish off the Junkion.

But the shadowy war-mech waved him away and gestured in their Hand language. ‘ _This mech deserves a proper death,’_ and then he hefted a captured energy spear, intending to dispatch the Junkion leader personally.

“Ain’t right,” the Junkion spat up at him. “We be allies. We worked _together_ for this.”

The ranking Allicon watched, mesmerized, as his old war-mech didn’t waste time or draw out the Junkion’s end with useless posturing. Searching those glowing eyes, the Allicon found no enjoyment within them for the task. With one sudden thrust, the dark war-mech impaled the Junkion through what passed for the mechanical’s spark chamber.

The ranking Allicon watched the Junkion’s face plates twist in agony. Then the war-mech leaned down and his voice became companionable. It was almost as if they were merely two leaders sharing an intimate moment.

“Nothing personal,” the war-mech said, looking steadily into the dying Junkion’s optics. To the ranking Allicon, his old war-mech sounded honest, if not the least bit apologetic. “But every drop of fuel you consume is better spent on _my_ mechs. I begrudge you your life while my people remain under threat.”

“Lu…cy,” the Junkion moaned in despair.

The shadowy war-mech watched the Junkion carefully and the ranking Allicon had to strain to catch the last few words. “Don’t worry,” the war-mech murmured. “Dearest Lucy shall soon be in the best of servos.”

The Junkion leader gargled in reply, but his response was lost in a burst of static. His optics flickered as his body began spasming in terminal shutdown. The war-mech straightened and stood tall, and then realized he was being watched. Cold red eyes beheld him, and the ranking Allicon cursed himself for his instinctive step back.

At Megatron’s pedes, Wreck-Gar’s spark finally guttered out.

After losing the icy staring match with his old slave, the ranking Allicon had the distinct impression wasted shots had been the goal. He knew Cybertronians were vicious, but he hadn’t expected them to turn on each other like this. If anything, they had always seemed protective of each other. It was a trait he’d intended to exploit to control them.

 _Should have left the Junkions in their cages after all..._ and now Megatron’s Allicon didn’t feel so wise or so in control. He felt as caged as any of the assets; trapped in this hellish hole in the ground and all around him red eyes were watching and waiting. Surveying, studying, calculating. From the pen, his old war-mech sank down low like some sort of ravening predator ... a fiend waiting for the right time to strike.

Leaving his war-mech’s baleful gaze behind, the Allicon headed up the tunnel. But from outside the main barrier, he could still see tell-tale flickers of red light. There and gone, but watching, always watching. Confused, he couldn't understand why the immediate assault he was expecting wasn’t materializing.

Now the night cycle was passing and the day was on approach. They continued to make an example of the two chosen mechs, but still, the fugitives kept their distance. They never ventured close enough to speak with him. They never responded to his shouts. How do you threaten and dominate assets that refuse to address you?

The ranking Allicon shook in impotent rage while staring right back at those glowing red eyes. _Damn them_ for removing their collars. _Damn them_ for being so troublesome. _Why so difficult to comprehend that subservience is the best choice? A steady supply of fuel paste and a clean cell is far better than this hell-hole. Cybertronians are too contrary for their own good!_

But even worse, they were currently too far away to dominate. Still, he tried his best. “You!” the Allicon shrieked at the furtive eye-shine in the distance, “Present yourself for inspection or I will have my soldiers punish this one for _your_ disobedience!”

The glowing eyes didn’t move.

Further down the tunnel, the fugitive asset stayed low and unmoving. At least until the ranking Allicon had his troopers follow through with his threat. Then, instead of obeying, the fugitive vanished back down the tunnel. All without giving his tormented comrade so much as a second glance.

 _Unexpected_.

Red eyes all around him. Gleaming in the darkness. Defying him. _Damn them all_!

“Keep that one noisy,” the ranking Allicon ordered his troops. “Don’t kill him, but make certain they understand the price of disobedience!”

The guarding troopers nodded. They turned to obey as the ranking Allicon stumbled deeper into the cave...

... away from those terrible, terrible eyes.

 

***

 

Down in the deepest level, Optimus Prime was at the tail-end of a very long discussion.

He could tell Ratchet was having trouble following the gestures, waves, and exaggerated body language that was their only means of communication. Struggling to understand, Ratchet crossed and uncrossed his arms in frustration and he frequently broke optic contact to glance around the stuffy gloom for clues to their fate. Having missed out on the charades practice meant conversation was much slower for him; a true exercise in patience.

Fortunately for Ratchet, Optimus Prime had no end of that particular virtue.

The first thing Ratchet complained about was the heat and the state of their surroundings, understandably so. But everyone was quick to warn him away from the bulkhead covering the ship’s entrance. It was hotter than normal now, and opening the barrier would only let more heat in. The day-cycle was already on the way and promised to be a scorcher.

 _Ship is shelter_ , Optimus tried again. He pointed around the ship and then covered his helm with his arms. _We have to stay here_. _We can’t leave now. Soon it will be too hot outside_. Frustrated, Ratchet watched all of that with a clenched jaw, not understanding the motions. He had no idea where he was or why, and he absolutely hated charades with a passion.

 _If Primus meant for mechs to communicate this way,_ Ratchet waved furiously, _we’d all be born on the Planet of the Mimes!_ He rocked back in shock when everyone laughed as if they understood him. His optics narrowed suspiciously, but if he was the butt of some kind of joke, the punch line never materialized.

Instead, Optimus’ optic-shine and biolighting reflected between them in the darkness, highlighting an amused smile for Ratchet’s irritable theatrics. His body glow was much brighter in the dark then before, and his EM fields radiated his comfort. The rest and attention had done him some good, and he was far more relaxed now.

At his back, Sideswipe was back to drowsing with soft revs of his engine. Optimus glanced over his shoulder, making sure the line connecting them wasn’t tangled.

Sideswipe and what to do about his constant disobedience had been a real problem, to the point that it was threatening the rest of them. While he was the weakest and most injured among them, he was also more rambunctious then all of them combined. Optimus wasn’t prepared to apply strict physical punishment for a pile of reasons, foremost among them that the smaller mech couldn't handle it. His solution was that he would simply have to take more responsibility upon himself for his errant subordinate.

Hence the leash.

Rags tied to the end of rags created a long tether which wrapped snugly around Sideswipe's chest and waist and ended around Optimus' wrist. It was a leash in name only, having no undertones of ownership what-so-ever. Optimus did not tug or pull on the tether or use it to control Sideswipe’s movements.

The statement made was more along the lines of: _this Lambo cannot be trusted to move about under his own agency, thus Optimus Prime, Leader of the Autobots, Matrix-Bearer and Long-Suffering Mechanism of Infinite Patience must look after said Lambo's Every Move for the Greater Good Of Us All until the Petrol-Cows Come Home (or until he tripped over the tether enough times)._

Sideswipe accepted his punishment with a shocked stare that morphed into the appropriate embarrassment. Even better, the silent, resentful hostility from the other Autobots went up in sniggering smoke. Particularly tickled over it, Jazz even pulled out his best snortle for the occasion, but everyone got some good-natured teasing in.

Alas, self-reflection was an unnatural state for ‘Sides. Humble contrition lasted about a breem, which was the same amount of time it took for Optimus to forget about and then trip over the tether. His subsequent flattening of team Rusty Rocket prompted more amusement from Jazz and more apologizing from Optimus which the scientists waved away; _for spark’s sake enough already, Prime. We still love you._

It was difficult for Sideswipe to explain to them that the source of his wander-lust was already satisfied: Sunstreaker was going to be okay. Comforted and relieved, ‘Sides was now fully dedicated to aiding his fellow Autobots and had no intentions of causing further trouble.

As embarrassing as the teasing was, Sideswipe couldn't help but feel better once things calmed back down. There was something to be said about getting punishment out of the way and then receiving forgiveness thereafter. Accepting the teasing, he watched the goings-on with Ratchet while sitting on the berth until he finally drifted off. Even with the tether still secure around his middle, he looked as relaxed as Optimus felt.

Ratchet, however, was less than relaxed. He kept glancing down at his lower frame, scowling at the device in his valve, poking at his rough patched cuts, and growing more and more impatient with their limited mode of communication. The last thing he remembered was a feeding tube jammed down his throat in the Quint support pod before going unconscious.

Waking up under a snoozing Optimus Prime, surrounded by his friends, that first disorienting moment of lucidity had been more relief then annoyance. No, what was annoying was trying to understand his fellow Autobots, and he was swiftly running out of patience.

 _But where is this ship? Can’t be flight-worthy?!_ Ratchet waved his arms around in confusion, struggling to understand though he knew Optimus was doing his best. Explaining the situation with the ship was time-consuming and only increased the old medic’s questions and frustration. Finally he waved them all off with a – _don’t tell me because I don’t even want to know anymore_ – sort of gesture, and yet again everyone seemed to understand him.

Been there, done that…

Across the room, Wheeljack provided an unintentional distraction when he snuffled out his vents and his optics scrunched in discomfort. Then he made the mistake of scratching at his head wound. The audial-cringing _scritch-scritch-scritch_ of filthy servos dragging across raw, brutalized metal drew attention to his miserable injuries. Numerous sympathetic optics (including a pair from a suspicious medic) glanced over his direction, taking in Optimus’ clumsy (but holding) patch job. Mostly holding anyway. It was decent work borne of long practice, now if only a certain engineer would stop scratching at himself…

Another few drags of rust-flecked fingers, a click of a harassed med-patch starting to peel and Wheeljack froze when he realized everyone was staring at him with intense expressions. His offending servo hovered achingly over his raw wound and the moment hung…

 _Don’t do it, mech!_ Jazz warned in frantic motions…

Ratchet’s optic twitched…

… _scritch?_

Ratchet pounced on the feckless deviant with a roar of professional outrage, and thus began the medical blitz of the century.

 

***

 

Brawl crept back towards the Allicon’s improvised barrier.

It was hard for him to stay out of sight, being the massive bruiser that he was, but he did his best. The Allicon leader was gone now, but his troops and the hostages remained. Alert for any movement, he stayed low as he reclaimed his watch over the enemy. Their barrier was a mere twenty paces away from his position and seemed cobbled together with haste, but otherwise it seemed solid.

Brawl kept an open comm with Onslaught as ordered, but soon grew bored. Being bored was bad; it gave him time to think about missing comrades. First Blast Off and then Swindle, but mostly Swindle because he could hear his poor team mate up ahead, and then there was nothing left to do but drown out his anxiety by indulging in his favorite past time. To wit; messing  with his squad leader.

<Hey, Onslaught? You uh … ain’t still mad about all the ... _you know_? Are you, Onslaught! --- Onslaught? You there? Not _mad_ right? Onslaught?>

Ignoring the nuisance wasn’t working and Brawl was otherwise too valuable to outright shoot. Thwarted, Onslaught muttered an unintelligible reply, followed by a much clearer order. <Optics on target, Brawl.>

Grinning, Brawl obeyed as he always did. Moving with the utmost care to avoid detection, he crept ever closer. He could see the two hostages just inside the barrier, both chained down and utterly helpless. One mech with a Praxian frame that he sort-of recognized, and one sad, delirious jeep that he absolutely recognized.

Brawl crept forward another micron, this time keeping his eye-shine to himself. Craning his neck, he tried to count the number of Allicons left on watch while keeping his optics on Swindle’s prone form. His team mate was still making noise, but nothing so coherent as singing anymore.

<Onslaught? Not mad, right?> Brawl poked again, barely keeping the slag-eating grin out of his voice as he offered up weak-aft excuses. <‘Cause you know I was all drugged up and everything–>

<Focus, Brawl!>

That deep, rancorous order rumbled through Brawl’s audials like the sweetest music. He choked back an incriminating chortle. Having serenading a half-conscious Onslaught with every single annoying ditty he could dredge up from his memory-files (the catchier the better!) he wanted nothing more than to bask with Swindle and Vortex in Onslaught’s denta-grindingly impotent wrath.

Quint gas was one hell of a drug after all ... What, you say? Brawl _intentionally_ driving his leader insane with inane Earth jingles?

_Perish the thought!_

But from the look of things, Swindle wasn’t going to be basking in anything but weld lines, wire stitches, and anti-rust bandages. His immediate future held cooling thermal blankets and bed rest…once rescued, anyway. And that was the heart of the problem and why the entire Combaticon team was on edge.

“Hey,” said a sub-vocal whisper, and Brawl recognized Vortex’s voice instantly. “How’s he holding up?”

“Should ask the same of you. Thought you weren’t supposed to leave the med-station,” Brawl muttered as Vortex hobble-limped up next to him to peer at the guards in the distance.

“Snuck out,” Vortex admitted, rubbing over his chest plates and then wrapping his arms around himself. His deep stab wounds were patched and he was still hurting, but so was Swindle and _he_ wasn’t safe yet. “We moving yet?”

Brawl tapped his HUD, but Vortex made a slashing motion. _Frag that_. If he connected to the team’s comms then Onslaught would check up on him. Upon discovering he wasn’t flat on his back plates resting, Onslaught would order him back to the med-station and frag it all, he would have no choice but to go.

“I’ll rest when our resident con-artist is safe,” Vortex said. “Now what’s the plan?”

Brawl nodded and motioned in Hand, filling Vortex in on the details of the upcoming two-pronged counter attack. Long Haul’s team was setting up on the nearest wall and would begin breaking into the tunnel from the side while Onslaught led a simultaneous attack on the main barricades. Because of the close quarters, they would be using a phalanx-style assault using crude shields while attempting to get the Quints to waste as many shots as possible before the final two-sided rush.

Meanwhile, Thundercracker would be leading a sortie on Overlord’s minions hiding below. They were all still weak from battle, but Megatron was insistent that it was critical to press the attack sooner rather than later.

Then Onslaught’s surly demand for an update crackled through Brawl’s HUD, and Vortex grinned at him. Repeating everything said in Hand for the inquisitive Vortex, a couple of descriptive flicks of Brawl’s fingers explained why Onslaught was so torqued with him.

“You dirty fragger,” Vortex hissed in amazement and his rotors twitched. He’d been out cold and missed everything. His shock died a swift death, however, when Swindle’s pained whine carried over to them.

For a moment Brawl teetered between amusement for Onslaught’s ire and fury for the Allicon's abuse of his injured team mate. Then fury won out when Swindle hiccuped as one of the Allicon prodded him. The miserable jeep continued his confused muttering. From the sound of things, Swindle was trying to sweet talk some foul-tempered customer in his fever dreams. He was certain he’d heard Swindle mumble something about explosives not covered by warranties. At least the troopers were holding off on the pain sticks while they thought the watcher was gone.

<Swindle’s still awake enough to try and talk.> Brawl reported through his HUD, <But he’s not making sense anymore.>

Onslaught didn't like the sound of that. <Smash and grab any sort of option, here?>

Vortex looked hopeful, but Brawl quashed him flat with a miserable shake of his helm. <Not with that barrier in the way.>

Brawl slumped in place as the glyphs left his vocalizer. It physically hurt to say them and he and Vortex shared a grimace of frustration. He was all about rushing in half-cocked and smashing stuff and pulling off daring hits and rescues. But as much as Swindle (and that other guy) needed help, an immediate rescue wasn’t in the cards. Not with that barrier and those guards holding blasters and pain sticks.

Brawl was impotent and hating it … and then Swindle's muttering trailed off and the taunting ramped up to full on abuse. Vortex looked murderous and Brawl mimed shooting them with his powerless blaster while he complained bitterly into his HUD, <Onslaught, Swindle’s getting faint, we gotta round up everyone and bust him out!>

<Have to follow the plan,> Onslaught retorted, shaking his helm, attention split between a furious Brawl, a vengeful Megatron, numerous plans, and an injured Swindle. <They have blasters, and we have to do this by the book if this operation is going to be a rescue and not body recovery.>

Vortex punched his fists into the air with an exaggerated _oh_ _come on already, let’s go!_

<So what's the damned plan?!> Brawl sounded as impatient as Onslaught felt.

Onslaught winced. Plans and strategies and possibilities raced nonstop through his analytical processor. Each one considered, reanalyzed, reconsidered, and then discarded whenever blasters were added to the equation. Bringing swords to a gunfight was a genuinely bad idea, especially with how weak and wounded everyone was. They needed an edge, and the one advantage they could exploit required patience.

<Our greatest advantage right now is the ability to fight during the day, thanks to Mixmaster’s cooling gel. That means we need to wait until the day cycle to attack.>

<That’s joors away! Every minute wasted here–>

<Brawl.>

<Fine! But you can’t make us shut him out like this. I want to open my side of the–>

<No, Brawl.>

<We can’t leave Swindle by himself! Shouldn’t have left Blast Off out in the cold! I ain’t doing that again!>

<The only thing that will make things worse is if we can’t focus to give Swindle our best shot. I won’t have you doing anything rash. You open that gestalt link and I will beat you _stupid_ , Brawl. More stupid than you already are.>

<But they are…with their damned sticks…right now–> Brawl smacked the wall with his fist in emphasis and Vortex jolted and shook his servos frantically.

<I _know_ Brawl! > Onslaught roared back.

Brawl winced when one of the Allicon perked up, having heard him. Vortex grabbed him and shook him furiously – _quiet stupid!_ – and Brawl grabbed and shook him back – _you be quiet_! – and they mime-strangled each other for long moments.

After a few moments of quiet the Allicon trooper settled back. “Still nothing,” Brawl heard the trooper say to his partner and Vortex crept a little closer to listen.

“Soon the day-star will return,” the other trooper agreed, “And it will be too hot for battle. The Commander says they should have attacked by now.”

“Maybe still too weak from the gas,” the other trooper considered. Obeying orders, he poked Swindle with a pain stick and snorted in disappointment for the soft gasp of pain. Swindle was far too quiet now.

The other Allicon guard grunted agreement and tapped a glowering Bluestreak on his door-wings. Bluestreak jolted for the painful shock, but he remained balefully silent and that wasn't entertaining. “Why this one? Can’t remove the muzzle, so no noise! Not so good a show to frighten the fugitives.”

“Safest two for hostages,” the other answered. “Others too dangerous to play with,” he reminded his cohort. “No collars.”

“But this one gets quieter and quieter. Barely notices us anymore.” The trooper punctuated his complaint by tapping Swindle with his pain stick again, annoyed and not wanting to get in trouble for the lack of noise.

One of the crude troopers cocked his head and then turned and shouted an update down the tunnel, “Still nothing yet!”

“Doing it wrong,” Overlord called out from his cage a little deeper in the cave. Still paralyzed, he was laying on his back while the battery cell kept his spark alive. That same battery didn’t handle energy surges so well, thus Overlord was spared hostage duty. Bored out of his mind, he took the opportunity to amuse himself as best he could with whoever was within reach; currently the guards.

The Allicon trooper turned and scowled over his shoulder at the criticism. He was well aware his ineptitude was showing; he was just a lowly grunt and would never have access to slaves like this. Not under normal circumstances.

“You see that panel between his lower limbs?” Overlord rasped with a cruel smile. “Pull it off. Two ports inside. Want a show to please your master? Go for those.”

“That bolt-sucking traitor,” Vortex whispered and his optics glittered. “I’m going to _get him_ for this.”

<Brawl, head back now. Make sure they don’t see you. If they think they have an audience, things will get even worse. I am sending Snarl to relieve you.>

Brawl ground his dental plates in a white hot rage when the Allicon took Overlord's advice and Swindle started to shriek. Another shrill cry and Brawl’s servos twisted into fists. <Doesn’t matter! They are still torturing him! They don’t even know I am here!>

“Ah, beautiful.” Overlord warbled.

It was true that misery loves company, never more so than Overlord right now. Closing his optics, he savored the cries with his crocodile smile and offered up more exotic suggestions. His smirk remained even as the Allicon snarled at him to be silent. But they still took his advice, growing more and more impressed with the results.

 _You gonna pay for that, sucker._ Brawl wasn’t sure how yet, but listening to Swindle shriek was mighty inspiring for plotting revenge. Vortex caught his optic, both on the same wavelength. Frag with one Combaticon, better be prepared to face the whole set.

<Get back here. That’s an order.> Onslaught’s vocalizer was thick and harsh. Now even he could hear Swindle's cries over Brawl’s HUD, shrill over the contrasting sounds of Brawl’s grinding denta.

“I’m going to stay and keep an optic on him,” Vortex whispered sub vocally to Brawl, one hand flat over his aching chest, the other clenched into a tight fist.

Brawl grunted agreement and turned to obey Onslaught’s orders. As Brawl crept away, Vortex heard Bluestreak’s door-wings a-clatter with pain and it reminded him of the captive Rat fuming and starving in his tiny cage. A thought struck and his face pinched in furious contemplation.

Swindle wouldn’t be nearly so tormented if Overlord hadn’t upped the ante...

 

***

 

Faint cries of pain drifted through the penitentiary, even to the lower levels.

The bitter noise intruded down to where the last of Overlord’s gang lurked. “Something is happening up there,” one of the aliens said as the whole group strained their eyes upward. They were all nervous while standing amidst the calm before the storm. No one knew what had happened after the lift dropped and the clouds of gas and murderous blaster fire had confused everything. The piles of garbage everywhere made it difficult to see through the slats up to the Courtyard.

Barricading themselves below, they had regrouped in the lowest levels. Now with layers of grating and mounds upon mounds of trash between them and the Quint’s blaster fire, things had quieted down. But only for a few joors. Without Overlord to control them, the inevitable squabbling over leadership had already begun.

Some of them wanted to press the attack and overwhelm the Cybertronians while they were still muzzy from the gas. Most wanted to stay down and let the Cybertronians sort the Quint mess out first, and _then_ attack. The rest were preaching _live and let live_ as if that were some kind of option.

Underbite didn’t blame them.

The deep respect and fear in their eyes for Cybertronian brutality was bolstering to his ego, after all. But that didn’t keep him from heckling them for their cowardice. “Plenty 'o bodies now, sure." Underbite dragged his powerful front talons across the grating. "But what 'bout _later_? Yeah we busted them up good. But they'll be back and I can promise you that.”

Another alien mech piped up, “He’s right. I saw one of them watching us through their secret tunnel. Our barricade there is weak and won’t hold up to a sustained assault. Not from _them_.”

“The star is coming up,” the flight-enabled Lithonian said. “Soon it will be too hot to fight.” Standing knee deep in the trash-drifts, his face was contemplative as he frowned up at the ever brightening light that streamed down the hole in the cavern’s ceiling. The night was passing and day was on approach; soon they would have worse problems. “The Quintesson destroyed the lift coming down, and the entrance is no longer sealed. We will have to do something about it if we don't want to burn to death over the next few cycles.”

One of the others piped up from the edge of the milling crowd. “We gave up our chance to defeat the Cybertronians when we withdrew. We need to go up there and work out a long term agreement of some kind, or we will _all_ perish.”

“I’ll go,” Underbite offered. “I can get their leader to back off, at least for a time. Otherwise they will be rampaging down here in a matter of cycles. Old’ Megs told me he wanted you lot dead. I can convince him to leave us be.”

“Yes, let him go! He's strong enough. He can convince them!” One of the others cried out, all too happy to remain below in relative safety. A murmur of agreement rustled through the anxious crowd. Let the blusterer with the beak go and face the Cybertronians and their vicious, maiming servos! Fine by them!

"Imma need the master key to get through the 'cades," Underbite said, all offhand-like. Not a big deal, right? So just fork ‘em over, please and thank you.

Dead silence fell and the moment dragged on as everybody was suddenly _far_ less keen on the idea. “Not like I’m gonna get through ‘em any other way,” Underbite broke the silence to point out. Clacking his beak, he was starting to look hurt and worse, a little offended.

“Request is legitimate,” one of the skeptics finally agreed. “He will have to take the master key with him to vacate. Contemplate; key was stolen back from Overlord but victory is moot if the Cybertronians or the Quintesson reclaim it. What recourse if they recover the key from our comrade and attack?”

“I will go with him. Lock him out and then wait for his return,” the flight-enabled Lithonian offered. “ _I_ will hold onto it for safety.”

"Insanity," another mech exclaimed, "The Quintesson are up there. Waiting at the last barricade means you will be within line of fire."

"We haven't seen any shots fired for hours. I see no other options," The Lithonian answered while Underbite scowled for the argument.

The Lithonian shot Underbite an apologetic glance, but the others would only agree to send him after that offer. No one wanted to go up there and face Quint blaster fire, but if the master key fell into Cybertronian hands, the barricades would be worthless.

Underbite snorted down his beak, looking offended for the mistrust the others held for him. “Alright then. No metal off _my_ hide.”

Heading out without another word, Underbite and the Lithonian left the others behind. While climbing the stairwells they paused to stare, shocked, at the trail of devastation Devastator had left in his wake. The bodies were already collected and stacked below, more than enough to eat for some time. But the bent bars – all twisted around and down in agonizing curls – never failed to impress.

“Such power,” the Lithonian murmured. “Why did you leave your kin?”

“I didn’t," Underbite said. "Got caught up in a mess of an operation out in the Cetus system. Secret Autobot lab, an' we got trashed instead of doin' the trashin’ and I got left behind. Fraggers promised they were gonna come back for me, but none of my squad ever showed up.”

Underbite cocked his head as they arrived at the last barricade and the Lithonian unlocked the last set of shackles. 

Underbite made a show of hesitating as if worried for the task at hand. In truth, some of his reluctance was very real, just not for the reason his not-friend assumed. Noting the master key looped over the Lithonian's fingers, Underbite remembered the look in Megatron’s optics when he’d given his promise… _none but our people left alive_ …

"I _will_ wait for you," the flight-enabled Lithonian promised Underbite as he leaned forward with an earnest expression. "I will not leave you behind, I promise. You know I am good for that." His offer of support and complete misunderstanding of the situation was most endearing.

Underbite turned towards his not-friend and regarded him for a long, full breath. His beak dropped a micron and his expression twisted into a deathly solemn frown. “Yeah, I do. And 'cause of that, I’m gonna keep _my_ promises.”

Then he exploded forward. His powerful beak snapped down over the Lithonian’s helm and he severed it with a crunch. Death was instantaneous and with a few more snaps the rest of the body followed after.

Body glowing from the power up, Underbite blasted a hot breath from his nasal vents and ground his beak. He forced himself to shake off a strange sense of melancholy…such an unusual emotion for him. Death _was_ coming after all. Death in the form of ol’ Bucket Head and his vengeful Decepticons and most assuredly it would be a painful one.

In the end, Underbite had kept his word to his not-friend and he let go of the last of his regret. “Eh, all for the best. All I need in life are my two bestest buds.” With two noisy smooches, Underbite kissed his bulky forelimbs with affection and then snatched up the master key.

Now only a scant few levels between himself and the Courtyard, he strode forward with swift intent. Heading up towards the rest of the Cybertronians, he smiled as the master key jingled from his clenched beak. Tinkling a merry tune as he walked, Underbite savored the sound. It could open the locks for every single set of cuffs and shackles in the place, and the lovely thing was going to buy him his place on the winning side.

Tromping upward, Underbite ignored the enraged cries from the betrayed mechs watching below and picked up his pace. From the sound of things, there was going to be a party topside, and he didn’t want to be late.

 

***

 

Ratchet’s hands were amazing things.

Even in the darkness and with his outer plating sheared off, his tucked and folded finger-tools and surgeon’s skill remained. He had already re-welded and patched up everyone’s surgery wounds. Then a close inspection of Jazz’s rust-filled cuts put the old medic back into a screaming frenzy. Digging through his supplies for something that would help, Optimus was all but knocked over and frisked for the good stuff. Treatment for everyone’s creeping rust infections commenced kliks later.

If the upper levels resembled the set for a zombie film, the lower level was staging “The Robo-Mummy Returns” as helms and various body parts were stitched up, welded closed, taped off, and wrapped up in oh-so-stylish anti-rust bandages.

During the medical flurry, Jazz had dared interrupt to offer Ratchet his favorite wrench back. Everyone paused to watch as he offered up the sacred item like a squire offering a beloved knight his favorite sword.

Optimus watched the scene unfold while standing with his hands on his hips. He was only a little lighter for all the medical supplies transferred to the old medic’s subspace (along with an emergency supply of energon). Satisfaction filled his face plates while behind him, Sideswipe paused in his game of tether-jump-rope-‘til-Optimus-threatens-me-again to grin at Ratchet, seeing the eye shine reflecting off the old medic’s delighted smile. 

“Harrumph,” Ratchet grumped at Jazz. It translated to something to the tune of _don’t think you won’t regret giving this back to me._.. but Ratchet’s optics flashed with true pleasure. He’d thought it lost forever.

That happy moment lasted only so long as it took Optimus to hear a nearby thump. Glancing over at a squirming bundle on the communal berth, he stared as the crude blankets stretched out in the form of flapping door-wings. Then he realized that Prowl wasn’t still in bed because he was sleeping… he was still there because he was _hog-tied!_

Optimus growled. It was a legitimate, honest-to-Primus angry backyard dog growl. Hearing his number called, Jazz scurried over to explain himself while an unhappy Prowl continued to squirm under the bedding. Prowl was too dignified to make any noise, especially as he was limited to basic sounds to make himself understood. But he was more than willing to thrash; he was very unhappy with his treatment at the hands of his once-lover.

 _Don't let him up! Something’s wrong with him!_ Jazz's hands fluttered like reckless birds as he tried to explain the problem.

Optimus wasn't convinced of that. He rumbled deep and low in his chest to make his disapproval of the entire situation very clear. _This is our comrade and your actions are inappropriate_ ... but when he reached down to untie Prowl, Jazz grabbed at his hands, stopping his rescue efforts. Lumbering around and looming overhead, Optimus fixed Jazz with a firm, disappointed frown when he insisted on interfering.

Waking for the noise, Sideswipe joined Jazz in trying to explain what they had seen the day before. Comedy Theater ensued as two ranked, grown-aft Autobots stomped around in exaggerated poses.

_Devastator?_

Now Optimus looked confused. His confusion deepened when ‘Sides and Jazz started pointing dramatically at their heads and Sideswipe resumed the Devastator impression while Jazz mimed transforming and kept pointing at Sideswipe’s head.

Ratchet frowned in their direction. His optic quirked as he watched Jazz and Optimus explode into animated fits of charades when Optimus finally realized what Jazz and Sideswipe were accusing Prowl of.

 _Turning into Devastator’s head?!_ _Ridiculous_. Ratchet snorted his disdain for the notion and then had to eat his disbelief when Jazz stepped away from the argument and pulled and tickled on some of Prowl’s latches, forcing him to transform. Clicks and squeaks of outrage from both Prowl and Optimus were cut off as Prowl’s body began to rearrange itself to his alt mode.

Optimus hauled Jazz back to stop him – _what has gotten into you?!_ – and then everyone stopped and stared in shock as proof of Decepticon misdeeds stared them all in the face plates. Prowl did indeed turn into Devastator’s head… a furiously glaring head that promptly transformed right back.

_See! He’s part of their combiner now!_

Jazz's hands were almost a blur as he gestured and pointed at the now-furious Prowl. _I told you the ‘Cons were up to something! …_ and then Jazz stopped when the harsh slant of Prowl’s door-wings registered. His visor dimmed and he shrank back as that particular angle was reserved for the worst sort of decepti-scum.

 _Woooooah now!_ _Not saying it’s your fault,_ and Jazz lifted his servos in immediate surrender and backpedaled hard.

Optimus hesitated, and then shooed Sideswipe and the anxious Jazz away. _Settle down, all of you._

Then commander and sub-commander stared at each other for long moments. Optimus' eyes were filled with concern as he sat down next to his old friend and trusted subordinate. Memories of Red Alert’s voice flashed through his mind, reminding him of the warnings of Prowl’s involvement with the drone plot - all so long ago - and he gestured slowly and carefully.

_Was this recent? Was this voluntary?_

They were simple questions, but the weight of the implications and gentle accusations hung over the room. Jazz looked incredulous ... _obviously not!_... and then he started waving his servos in defense of Prowl.

But Optimus waved him away again. _I am talking to Prowl, not you._ His fingers were firm and the force of his disapproval drove Jazz back a few paces.

Prowl stared over their heads as vile memory-files replayed behind his optics. Nothing about his captivity had been voluntary. Flinching, he shook those memories off and then answered his comrades with a harsh slash of his servo. _No, this wasn't something I agreed to,_ and everyone reacted with hisses and furious clicks and closed ranks around him, worried servos reaching out to him in support.

Prowl pushed them away.

Moreover, Prowl ignored Jazz’s insistent attempts to touch him. Instead he stared Optimus point-blank in the optics and pointed at himself and then the upper levels. _All under control. I need to go. This is an opportunity I can’t pass up._

 _I don’t agree. Want you to stay here. Safer._ Optimus’ denial was gentle but firm. _Something is very wrong here._

Prowl sat back and nodded his helm in agreement. He made a show of settling down and rubbing at his wrists, but there was something in his optics that Optimus didn’t like. There was a strut-deep mistrust that hadn’t been there before, along with real fear. It made his spark ache and Optimus reached out to offer himself as comfort as was his wont, but was forced to step away instead when Prowl stiffened and refused the touch.

Optimus felt he had no choice but to obey that clear request for space, though worry had him hovering as close to Prowl as propriety would allow. He didn't like the way Prowl kept eying the exit. He couldn’t help but wonder if he might need a second tether, and with a deep engine sigh, he set off to acquire more rags, just in case.

Meanwhile, Ratchet turned his back to the hullabaloo to focus on his task. He had his work cut out for him, and now that he was finished cleaning up the last of Wheeljack’s infected cuts, there was only one serious matter to attend to; the damned squatters in their valves.

Ratchet glanced down at himself and his mood growing ever more sour. He was worried for the complexity of the device and echoed Wheeljack’s thoughts on the matter. He was in full agreement that randomly poking at the damned things was a bad plan. He would need a test subject, and the only one he trusted to experiment on was himself.

Ratchet flicked his wrist in dismissal and gently pushed his patient away, but Wheeljack didn’t move off. Instead, he looked down and pointed at the valve apparatus. All optics flashed towards the medic, or at least everyone with full valves. But Ratchet firmly waved off the timid servos and pleading eyes.

Ignoring them entirely, Ratchet turned and plodded away, disappearing into the cockpit to get to work on himself. Soft, hesitant pede-steps tried to follow after him, but he threatened them away with his Wrench of Doom. It worked at first, but with the combined IQs residing on board the little ship, it wasn’t long before the scientist, engineer, and saboteur figured out what he was up to.

There was a kerfuffle then as Perceptor and Wheeljack invaded Ratchet-Land (Jazz was too busy helping Optimus cover the bulkhead with a thermal blanket to try and block some of the heat) to insist on helping, with their thought process being that as soon as Ratchet finished figuring out how best to remove them, the faster he could get to everyone else.

Alas, Ratchet disagreed.

_Out!_

Ratchet gesture-roared and the two pitiful scientists slunk back into the main room to wait. He watched as they left, satisfied the sanctity of his operating theater would be respected, and settled down to poke and prod at himself. It wasn't long before he realized just what a momentous pain in the aft this was going to be. He rolled his optics upwards in disgust, only to blink as he focused on two hazy … _somethings? …_ protruding from the ceiling.

Realization dawned, and then Ratchet's high-pitched squeak of alarm echoed around the small space.

.007 astro-seconds later Optimus exploded around the corridor so fast that Sideswipe --- still attached to Optimus by his leash --- was nearly launched airborne. Undaunted, Optimus caught Sideswipe mid- takeoff, without slowing, and merely flung ‘Sides over his shoulder like a sack of bolts. His fists were clenched and at the ready as he charged towards whatever was alarming Ratchet.

And Ratchet's discovery _was_ alarming; insubstantial feet were sticking out from the ceiling wall. Ratchet looked horrified until one of ghost-pedes gave a miserable twitch. It was the pitiful, the shivering tremor of some terrified being, and horror morphed into concern for the suffering mech as Ratchet tried in vain to pull him out. But Ratchet couldn’t get a grip and his fingers slipped right through the pitiful ghost.

Then Optimus gave it a go while Sideswipe waved at him –-- _put me down so I can see!_ –-- a demand which Optimus ignored. Sideswipe gave up after a last few attempts at squirreling away. Slumping across his leader's shoulder, 'Sides relaxed under the comforting caress of powerful electromagnetic fields while Optimus stepped back in defeat. The insubstantial mech seemed unreachable and thus impossible to rescue.

Then Wheeljack came tottering around the corner.

Blinking at the odd sight, 'Jack recognized the dark pedes and remembered the mechanism that owned them and his special ability. He pondered the problem for a few kliks, tapping a forefinger against his chin. He then disappeared back around the corner, only to reappear a moment later holding a particular piece of rusty, woven metal fabric from the trash in his servos. After wrapping the fabric around the trapped mech's pede, Wheeljack was then able to grasp the ghost-mech and tug him free.

Dim, terrified optics greeted the Autobots.

Those barely glowing optics darted here and there, shocked for the sudden turn of fate. Suffering from serious injuries, the beleaguered mech struggled to focus... and it was clear to all that Skywarp was no threat to them. Lacking energy to move and trapped down in the light-less rock, he had given himself up for dead. Even now he was only moments away from terminal shutdown. 

Unaware, the Autobots gently pulled his floating body into the main room. He was an sworn enemy, but the Autobots remained kind-sparked, even after all they had suffered. They looked him over with curious optics, and their biolighting shone as bright little flickers in the deep darkness. Their bellies were full of fuel and mostly comfortable, and so they were far brighter than their new guest.

 _‘Please help,’_ Skywarp gestured at them in Hand, though they didn't understand his formal plea. Fortunately for him, they didn't have to. His sheer terror was enough to galvanize them into action and they rallied around him.

Wheeljack, a sleepy Perceptor, and to a lesser extent, Ratchet, puzzled over the problem while Skywarp trembled. He shook his helm at their gestures, unable to understand their questions. He did relax a little when he recognized Bare-Aft-Wings, and then a little more when the other tried to pat him (the bare servos merely passing through his form) while trying to offer him comfort in an unforeseeable twist of fate and fortune.

Skywarp watched with hope as Wheeljack fashioned some odd-looking device from their supplies. Grabbing a piece of console, 'Jack hesitated for a moment, and then gathered the innards of a hand-scanner along with a metal paperclip and something that vaguely resembled a banana peel. Along with Perceptor, the scientists tinkered while Optimus hovered protectively over the proceedings.

More gestures, more tweaking, and then both scientists seemed satisfied.

Ratchet joined the party when the scientists finally explained what they were up to. _Short out his warp-drive,_ they waved, _using this. Then back to the real world._ Their part was finished, now they needed help working it into his ghostly intakes so when he re-materialized, it wouldn't hurt him. Thus engaged, Ratchet worked with them until satisfied the Seeker wouldn't be unduly harmed.

One burst of energy from the crude device and Skywarp rejoined the physical world with a yelp. He crashed flat on his back, shaking and choking for the device now winding around his intakes. Freeing him from the crude tool took another few astro-seconds and his optics began flickering, revealing how bad off he was.

A reasonable amount of fuel was offered, and soon Skywarp was stabilized and resting. Then Wheeljack and Perceptor rounded on Ratchet again. But Optimus came to Ratchet's rescue … _too hot for that now …_ and it was true.

The heat was climbing to disturbing heights. He'd already wrapped the bulkhead with a thermal blanket (which both trapped heat in or reflected heat away depending on the side used). But it wasn't enough to keep things comfortable anymore, which was alarming. There wasn't much they could do but settle down and try not to exacerbate the problem by moving.

Skywarp was settled down amidst them after Sideswipe vouched for him. He seemed too weak to harm them anyway, but Optimus remained skittish after Prowl’s reveal. Optimus was working out a watch schedule with Jazz and Sideswipe when the heat levels surpassed their ability to cope.

Shortly after, everyone slumped into the communal berth, too overheated to process anymore.

 

***

 

The star remnant was climbing into the sky when Brawl slipped back up the tunnel and then stomped back towards the Bailiwick. Wincing for the blast of heat, he snarled threats under his breath as he passed Pipes and made his way to a clear spot inside the energy shield.

“It’s the lift,” Pipes called over his shoulder to Snarl's complaining brothers. “The Quints broke it – yes I _know_ it wasn’t your fault! – but now the seal is gone. It's going to get awful hot now, so deal with it!”

Pipes wasn’t normally so short with his friends, but his downcast face plates suggested his mood was well on the dark side. While passing the medi-station on Snarl’s back, he’d seen the dead-piles, and Tracks’ empty optics amid mountains of Junkion bodies had been a punch to the spark.

They were far from safe, but the calmness of the moment gave Pipes’ spark some time to process, and now he ached.

Pipes had just cut away the last of Sludge’s harness when Thundercracker called for him. “On my way,” he shouted back, relieved for the distraction. Forcing a supportive smile, he waved at Snarl’s brothers as he left to join the sortie. Sludge looked confused but happy to be free of the harness while Slag scowled after Pipes’ downcast helm and pert little skid-plate.

“Don’t like him,” Slag announced. Snarl’s new friend disappeared down the stairway and the instant he was gone Snarl started to list off everything negative he could think of about Pipes. When his (rather short) list ran out, he started making up stuff to pad it out a bit.

For once, Sludge was not fooled. “Me Sludge think you Slag is jealous of him Snarl’s new–”

Ignoring the ruckus behind him, Brawl slumped flat on his aft and put his helm between his knees and set his jaw. Shutting everyone else out was hard, and he was only partially successful.

“– **am _not_** _!_ ”

Stupid noisy Dynobots. Stupid miserable _Onslaught_. “So beat me stupid then you cold-sparked batcher-fragger,” and he opened his side of the link to Swindle. Pain flooded in and a curious murmur of comforting slush from a familiar mental presence and then Brawl huffed in shock for Onslaught’s surprised and then furious mental surge.

“Oh,” Brawl said faintly as Onslaught mentally punched him through the gestalt bond. Squad leader’s got this covered so thank you and _frag off_. The powerful tank-former oh-so-meekly raised his mental barriers again, even as he pinged Vortex with what he’d just discovered.

<Onslaught? Why didn’t you _say_ somethin– >

<Not one more word out of you! We will talk about this later, right after Hook surgically removes my pede from out your aft for disobeying me!>

<…you big ol’ softie…>

<I _heard_ that, Brawl! >

***

 

“You there!” The ranking Allicon demanded. “Step forward so I can see you!”

Snarl snorted and lowered his head and rattled his back plates. He wanted nothing more than to throw himself at the bars and test them, wanting to avenge his brothers.

"I don't answer to your kind anymore," Snarl rumbled hatefully at the Allicon. He was just about to hurl abuse their direction when a large frame stepped out from the shadows and startled him.

“I ordered you to keep out of sight,” Onslaught stepped forward, catching the ranking Allicon’s attention.

Snarl sniffed but didn’t answer. Um, giant Dynobot here? The flashy, pretty one too. It’s not like he _tried_ to be seen…

“You will gather the rest of your rabble and kneel in the open Courtyard!” the ranking Allicon shouted orders at the approaching Onslaught, sounding both relieved and enraged. “If you require an example made for disobedience, we have prepared one for you.”

Onslaught tried to ignore the ranking Allicon's threats and taunts as he'd coached himself. Then Swindle began to shriek again, and Onslaught couldn't smother his fury anymore, even though he knew it was for Swindle's sake.

"Frag you," Onslaught roared over his shoulder at the Allicon commander, “The more you harm him the slower your death will be!"

Striding away, Onslaught kicked himself for responding at all. He knew encouraging the Allicon by responding to their cruelty was the worst possible response he could make. Turning away, he was disgusted with himself and waved Snarl back with a low curse. “Stay away from the entrance and don’t give them an audience.”

Snarl grunted but didn’t argue, and Megatron's demand for an update a few kliks later was a welcome distraction.

<The Constructicons are over halfway through the wall,> Onslaught reported while returning to the Courtyard. He watched the demolition team of Scavenger, Mixmaster, and Long Haul as they battered their way into the harsh rock walls. <Then we begin the assault and overwhelm them, for better or for worse.>

<Onslaught!> Thundercracker called out over internal comms. <The Chompazoid just surrendered to us. He says he has an agreement with Megatron and he has something for you.>

***

 

“Master key,” Nova Storm whispered with a triumphant flick of his wings.

Standing beneath the grating, Nova Storm peered up through the bars of the floor of Ion Storm’s little ‘nest’ and handed Underbite's gift over, carefully wriggling it through. Taking the item, Ion Storm tucked it away to give to Megatron, then reached through the bars and grabbed his trine mate’s shoulder.

“How is he?”

Nova Storm perked up. “Looks like Crabby-wings is going to make it. Hook’s keeping him in the med-station for the next few cycles and he feels better enough to whine about it.”

Ion Storm flexed his wings, relieved to hear Acid Storm was going to pull through. “Thank Primus.”

Nova’s wings drooped a few microns for the next bit of news. “Dirge grayed out a few joors ago, and Skywarp’s still missing.”

Ion Storm and Nova Storm shared a long, solemn moment and then parted ways.

 

***

 

_WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP!_

Megatron stood back from the grate door and watched his old Allicon pace as the tunnel work continued. It was too hot for anyone or anything, and the Allicon was having trouble venting. Smeared in cooling gel, Megatron made it a point to look rather comfortable.

Thoughts of Optimus and concern for his well-being intruded on his thoughts, but he pushed them away. Tomorrow, he would focus on reclaiming his lost Autobot and the others hiding down below. They would need care soon... even if only protection from the dreadful heat of day now that the lift no longer sealed them in. 

No. Today he had to focus on the enemy. Today was a day for _vengeance._

“Where did you get that, slave?” The ranking Allicon hissed at him, finally noticing the gel gleaming across his old war-mech’s frame. He didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t like the triumphant look in his old war-mech’s eyes.

Megatron just stared at him, feeling his hatred flowing hot in his lines, burning out from his eyes.

The Constructicons were almost through the wall. He could hear the pounding as they increased in tempo and earnest. The hammering matched the harsh beat of his fuel pump, the sounds of his internal fluid roaring in his audials. The end was in sight, and the Constructicons were every bit as eager for blood as he was.

The ranking Allicon was not a complete fool. He recognized the most dangerous of developments and positioned most of his troops (with most of his remaining blasters) to greet the tunnel-makers.

But the master key changed things.

With it, the two-pronged attack had become three. Now it lay hidden within Megatron's servo as he bided his time. Waiting with patience borne of long suffering, he savored the sight as control slipped away from the ranking Allicon bit by bit.

Memory-files from the past played behind his optics; the look of fear on Optimus’ face when the Allicon arrived to force their interface, the sticky-wet feel of Starscream’s internal fluids as he deactivated in his arms, the painful burn of the slave-brand, his bitter isolation from his people and the feel of true helplessness and oppression grinding him down day after dreadful day.

Sucking in a deep in-vent, Megatron smiled as a faint, fearful whimper escaped his old tormentor.

 

***

 

Skywarp blinked awake, confused and disoriented.

His HUD was exploding in his audials and there were many blinking tags and requests to connect. He realized he must be showing online as everyone was trying to contact him, and no small numbers of them were asking if he was okay. It was kind of touching, actually.

Stretching out, Skywarp watched with curious optics as the Autobots vented in feeble gasps all around him. Reaching out, he felt along Bare-Aft-Wing's frame. He realized the problem when his own cooling vents up-ticked to their highest settings.

 _Primus_ but it was getting damned hot!

Propping his thrusters up, Skywarp turned on his thruster-blades, using them as high-powered fans. Small pieces of ash and thin metal began to whip around the room, but the temperature did drop by a few degrees.

Inspiration hit. Skywarp started searching through his subspace as the lights in his HUD became more and more insistent. There was one blinking light more important than all the others. With a long-suffering sigh for the coming storm, Skywarp connected to that one first.

<Hey TC! You aren't going to _believe_ where— >

< 'Warp! You scared the ever-loving scrap out of me! I thought you were DEAD you ... you tin-plated, limp-winged, glitch-sucking, son of a—>

Skywarp found what he was looking for while talking over his trine mate's howling. Pulling out a thick tin of cooling gel, Skywarp continued to chatter right over Thundercracker, who didn't pause either, his vocalizer rising to a fever pitch.

<—where l am—>

<—then I'm going to kick your stinking, sorry skid plate three ways 'til—>

<—right now!>

Skywarp's grin made it through the line in his tone as he was already back to his old, incorrigible self. Though perhaps a _little_ wiser. Overjoyed to be alive and well, he was actually eager for some company of the vocal sort. Even foul tempered company. _Very_ foul tempered, judging by the sound of Thundercracker's raging. Bombarded by his trine mate's utter fury, Skywarp just relaxed and listened without focusing on the words. Instead, he let his bestest-best bro rant and concentrated on opening the tin instead. Then he propped himself up and went to work repaying the Autobots for their kindness.

Gathering up a generous dollop, Skywarp began smearing it over the nearest round belly and then up the exposed neck cables. Prime was the closest and the first, and it felt wicked-funny handling the dangerous Autobot leader like this.

Skywarp's fingers hovered over the bare array, daring himself to coat the truck-former there. But prudence intervened and his servo fell away. He had already won life’s lottery. There was no point in tempting fate.

The two scientists were next. Their bellies were smaller and not so taut as Prime's. He frowned when he saw they still had those torturous valve-devices. His frown deepened when they had moaned their need for his touch, then cried out from pain when their valves clenched around the devices. But still they pressed back against his fingers, trying to rub against him, needing attention he didn't dare provide them… certainly not with Prime right there.

 _They are smelling guardian musk on me,_ Skywarp realized. His guardian coding wasn’t active, but some of the other Seekers were. He’d been taking advantage of that particular situation, trading valve play with the Rainmakers for access to their valves, side-stepping the normal Decepticon reluctance to bottom, as it were.

The Autobots didn’t have that cultural hang-up, but engaging with them had its own problems. Especially seeing as they had been enemies for four million years. _Maybe when they wake up I will try and coax them…_ but the squirming did remind him of something. _Maybe I can help them anyway._ Hesitating, he pulled out the key-logger he'd stolen from Hook. Hovering over one of the scientists, his sense of caution tried to argue with his impulsive nature. After all, Bare-Aft-Wing's valve apparatus had stalled halfway.

But as usual, caution lost the battle.

Skywarp applied the device to the nearest scientist. With a series of familiar-sounding clicks, the device retracted itself. This time, the retraction went off without a hitch, and Skywarp tugged the valve apparatus free without difficulty. The scientist gasped and moaned and squirmed, delighted. It was the same for the next scientist and then the medic, but he hesitated over Jazz.

 _Going to wait,_ Skywarp decided. There was no way in hell was he touching Jazz without a clear invitation. He'd heard stories about Prime's third-in-command, a mech with whom wise Decepticons did not frag. This wasn't worth dying over, not when he could just ask permission the next night cycle. Putting the device back into his subspace, he slicked his fingers with the gel and continued his original task.

The black and white tactician was next for the gel, and he seemed to hate every touch. His door-wings flexed and strained as he fought the slick fingers in his sleep, and Skywarp touched him least of all. Next to him, Jazz responded to his soothing fingers in the same way as the scientists; dripping wet after the barest of touches, pressing back for more, moving rhythmically and clearly aching for touch and attention. Even with that reaction, Skywarp remained cautious with Jazz, though he found his reactions heartening.

Growing bolder, Skywarp _did_ dare to get personal with Bare-Aft-Wings; familiarity taming his thoughtfulness. His fingers slid down and smoothed the gel over the bare array with gentle strokes that set the little mech's engine purring. Encouraged, he traced a finger along the softening slit, watching the mech lick his lips in his sleep.

Skywarp could feel the pleased, hopeful little shiver along the smaller mech's back strut. He slicked his fingers with the silvery beads of lubricant welling up from within and slipped a finger inside. Careful to be gentle, he stroked along the shallower nodes while the valve lips grew plush.

Definitely enjoying himself.

Pressing back against the fingers, the smaller mech met Skywarp thrust for thrust. Soft cries escaped as another finger joined the first, coaxing a gentle, building charge. Then another until all four fingers plunged in him, the calipers cycling down as if around a spike, thumb stroking circles around the exterior node and the valve clenched around his servo.

The honorary Seeker overloaded with a moan, squeezing around the lingering fingers and sighed. Amused, Skywarp stroked him through the trembles until he relaxed. Watching him roll over with a sigh of contentment, Skywarp left him to his recharge and continued to share the gel-love with the rest of the Autobots. No one fully awoke for the gel-slick touches, but their noisy ventilations calmed all across the berth for their cooler frames, and Skywarp considered that a win.

<We're going to have a talk when you get back.>

So said Thundercracker, concluding the _epic_ rant-rest that Skywarp had completely tuned out, but generally agreed with. TC left no room for argument, either. He was sick to death of their relationship problems. He'd already promised himself that if his brother survived, things were going to change for the better for them both.

Skywarp took a deep vent even as he smeared the last of the gel over his own neck. <Yeah TC, I guess we need to.>

Endless joors spent convinced that he was going to die had put quite a few things into perspective for Skywarp. One of those things was his relationship with TC and the importance of certain mechs in his life. It was amazing what a near-death experience could do for one's perspective.

Thundercracker hesitated, hearing something in his trine mate’s voice that he was not accustomed to. That almost sounded like an apologetic tone...? Meh, he must have imagined it. Skywarp would rather eat his own wings for breakfast then admit he was wrong.

<Now, where are you?> Thundercracker finally calmed down enough to remember Skywarp's boasting.

Skywarp grinned, <Oh, just down here with Prime's crew. Poor mechs are _stupid_ fragged up.> Now that Thundercracker wasn't ranting, he could hear the tinny sounds of battle from TC's HUD and he was getting curious.

Thundercracker paused while focusing on something and then asked, <Seriously?>

<Yup,> Skywarp said with a grin. <They are underground somewhere, I bet in that same hollow as before. All recharging 'cause it's too damned hot. I swear TC, I'm surrounded by all these bare-aft mechs, it's kind of cute in a horrifying sort of way ... fragging Quints!>

Thundercracker relaxed quite a bit for the easy sound of 'Warp's prattling. But an aggressive attacker forced him to focus on his present situation again. Ducking a crude ax hit from one of Overlord’s minions, he dispatched the fool and shouted “Pipes, are you ready?!” and then addressed Skywarp again.

<Can you get back anytime soon? I need you. We went down in a foray against Overlord's minions to scout the situation, but we weren't expecting to get this far. The gel is making a huge difference and I think we can finish them today!> and Thundercracker sounded particularly pleased, as he was certain that defeating Overlord's minions and coming back with a decisive victory would do much to improve his standing in Megatron's optics.

<There's no way I can get back, not right now. My warp drive is whacked,> and Skywarp was sorry for it too. He could hear Thundercracker shouting orders now, directing the attack. It sounded like a damned good fight.

Thundercracker grunted over the line, sounding as disappointed as Skywarp felt. Then Skywarp heard Thunders start shouting at some mech to block the secret tunnel. Connecting to the battle-comms, 'Warp relaxed and listened as Thundercracker's little crew pulled out their secret weapon.

<Idiots clustered inside the tunnel for cover, can you _believe_ our good luck?! >

<Just saying, I am immune to my corrosive acid, but this will hurt you guys something awful if you don’t stay back and—>

<We _know_ Pipes, some of us have experience with acid! >

<Frag yeah! Remember that time when Mixmaster accidentally swamped the entire base with that concoction and turns out that when you mix it with saltwater it converted to an aphrodisiac gas and then the whole base was walking around sporting huge—>

<Wait, what?>

<Did Megatron just—>

<Nautilator! No storytimes in the battle comms! Pay attention, people!>

<Hey, did you guys say you needed some acid? Give me a second and I will……… “you get off that berth and I will break every strut in your body!”…errr ... sorry guys and never mind, Hook says no.>

<Stay down, Acid Storm. Pipes has this covered.>

<Alright, the top of the tunnel is closed off! No danger of backwash or whatever!>

<Let them have it, Pipes!>

Skywarp grinned as Pipes unleashed his signature ability down the tunnel, and he could hear the alien shrieks even from the ship. Probably a good thing the Autobots were all dreaming…

It was shaping up to be a right proper massacre.

 

***

 

<About half-way there,> Long Haul reported to Onslaught. Rearing back, he surged forward and helped Mixmaster and Scavenger batter through another thick section of blasted rock. He frowned for the strained sound of Onslaught’s voice, demanding a more detailed ETA.

Tunneling wasn’t quiet work, but it was their only option. The star was burning hot now and only the cooling gel let them work so voraciously. From Brawl’s report, Swindle wouldn’t survive another cycle without medical care.

Still damaged, Megatron, Ion Storm, and Sunstreaker remained in the pen. Master key in hand, they were waiting for the signal to attack. 

Meanwhile, the Allicon were demanding that the tunneling cease. Growing almost too feeble to stand, they suffered greatly for the heat. But they were still making an example of Bluestreak and Swindle, shouting their demands down seemingly empty tunnels over the sounds of Swindle's shrieks, and Onslaught was fit to be tied.

Damn near everyone was fit to be tied.

The only bright spot was just how much aft Thundercracker was kicking down below. Rallying the last of the Junkions and having them spearhead the assault, he and the others were tearing through the alien mechs.

Annoyed to be stuck excavating when all he wanted to do was break stuff, Long Haul somehow managed to pick up the pace. More than anything he wanted to get his servos around the Allicon’s thick neck. More than anything he wanted to watch those yellow eyes bulge and the lights go out nice and slow.

Beside him, Mixmaster couldn’t stop giggling. He rocked back and forth in anticipation while Scavenger had a permanent grin plastered across his face plates. They all had suffered under the Quintesson. They all had reasons for wanting to reach the Allicon on the other side. And so they continued to work as hard as they could, battering through the rock layer by layer.

Finally, the last bit of rock began to give, and Long Haul called out the start of the final assault. The wall dropped and he hefted a crude shield and charged forward with the rest of the Constructicons at his back.

Weak shouts and blaster fire erupted all around them. The worst was from the main tunnel as Onslaught began his head-on assault. At his back, Brawl and a limping Vortex hoisted their shields as they made one last ditch effort to save Swindle.

Oh-so-satisfying cries of alarm filled the tunnel when Megatron and Ion Storm tore through the troopers at the side gate, taking them by surprise. Sunstreaker limped after them. He looked fierce, but was content to stomp the life out of the Allicon already down and left the active fighting to the others. He was too long without medical care to front-line today.

"I want the Allicon leader taken alive," Megatron's booming roar echoed down the tunnel.

"Fragger's over here," Onslaught shouted back.

Onslaught kicked the rusty cage the ranking Allicon had locked himself in, after succumbing to panic. Ignoring the Allicon shrieking orders at him, Onslaught left the wretch for Megatron to deal with. Knowing Megatron, Onslaught fully trusted that the resulting vengeance would be satisfactory.

Instead, Onslaught helped Brawl and Vortex unbind Swindle, having already torn out the pain stick still buried in Swindle's lower body. The cries finally ended and Onslaught crushed his broken team mate to his chest for a moment and then handed him off to Brawl to take to the med-station.

Behind him, a gleeful Long Haul and Scavenger tore through the last of the straggling troopers. They were easy pickings now that their ammo clips were empty, as the half-melted shields could attest.

“Found Overlord,” Mixmaster called out, pointing at the wall.

Vortex limped over and leaned triumphantly over the cage that contained Overlord and said, “Keep smiling, _freak_. I owe you one for Swindle and I’m going to pay you back in full.” Overlord looked unimpressed for the threat and just smirked right back at the Combaticon interrogator.

"Stay with Swindle. Keep me updated," Onslaught called after Brawl's retreating back plates as Megatron's dark silhouette appeared like a wraith from the gloom.

Half-delirious from the heat, the ranking Allicon began to moan in despair. He hefted a blaster with obvious intent, which Onslaught tore from his servos at the last second.

"You aren't getting out of this so easy," Onslaught hissed. "Not after all you have done to us, what you did to _mine_."

Behind him, Megatron strode up to the ranking Allicon's cage as a king would enter his court. Standing before the rusty cage, Megatron greeted his old owner as if they were long lost friends getting reacquainted. Only the wild flare of his plating revealed the sheer depths of his vengeful glee.

“Allicon soup tonight,” Mixmaster giggled.

***

 

Cleanup began all throughout the penitentiary.

It began from the top levels all the way down. Most of the cries ended as the last of the aliens were dispatched, leaving just the Cybertronians and a few nervous Junkions. Only the notable enemies remained alive, dumped into cages in the Courtyard while awaiting more elaborate executions.

“What about him?” Onslaught grunted, pointing at Overlord, who appeared to be dozing. Did nothing phase the monster? He did wake with a shudder when prodded by Onslaught’s less-than-kind pede.

Megatron grunted, considering. “That cell will keep him alive for months. We could unplug it and he would offline into status. Perhaps that would be the wisest course of action.”

“Trial,” Overlord wheezed out, lips upturned, as if wholly unafraid of his final fate.

Long Haul grunted from nearby, “He was scheduled to go to trial on Cybertron for the slag-show he pulled at Garrus-9, among many other things. Just unplugging his battery is too damned kind.”

“He goes back to face justice,” Megatron agreed, knowing Prime would demand the same. He watched as a begrudging Mixmaster dumped cooling gel over the ranking Allicon and the troopers that had tortured Swindle. They were already dying for the heat, but _they_ were what everyone wanted dealt with, though Overlord was a close second.

Onslaught threw his hands on his hips. “Agreed. There was a vault in one of the caves a few levels down. We dump him in there, bury him down in the dark and if we escape and get back in time, then we drag his sorry aft back for a trial. Otherwise, he deactivates a few vorns from now, already in a coffin.”

“That’s it?” Overlord wheezed from the bottom of his cage. “That’s the _best_ you can do?”

Onslaught spat. “Buried alive. Too peaceful for me. It’s more than you deserve.”

“You are all pathetic,” Overlord gasped out in agreement. “Living with Autobots has softened you. Pathetic, the whole lot.”

“I’ll help the Constructicons bury this freak,” Brawl said as he turned to follow Scavenger and Mixmaster. “Do me some good to slam the door on ‘em after what he helped the Allicon do to Swindle.”

Onslaught winced. He was sorely tempted to join Brawl, certain he could get a few blows in without any of the others complaining. It was beneath him, though, and the freak would likely get off on it. “Go with them then,” Onslaught waved Brawl off, “But remember that old saying about turbo-pigs and mud. Fragger feeds off watching others suffer. You can’t hurt him like he deserves and anything less he’ll just laugh off. Don’t give him anything he’s going to enjoy.”

“Hey,” and now Scavenger looked offended. “We are _professionals_ here. He’s just going into the box and then we are sealing him up as ordered. Done and done.”

“Good,” Onslaught said, not quite managing to mask his disappointment, and then he strode away.

Brawl stared down at a smirking Overlord, now carried between the two Constructicons. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” His blast mask flashed wickedly as he opened a comm link to Vortex.

***

 

“No! We want a trial for the Allicon too!” Pipes cried. “Especially the Allicon!”

Snarl thumped his tail in agreement, while the Decepticons just looked at each other in sheer amazement.

Fragging Autobots and their bleeding sparks!

“Did you not notice the corpses of our warriors outside the med-bay? Or the state of our new comrades," Megatron hesitated and Thundercracker offered the names over command comms, “–our new comrades Slag, Sludge, and Bluestreak? I could spend the next few years expounding on my treatment at _that_ particular Allicon’s hands. Guilt seems a foregone conclusion. I intended to dispense immediate punishment–”

“But what about victim impact statements? What about confronting them about what they did? Just killing them outright isn’t justice!”

“Aww come on,” Nova Storm shouted, “Forget all that and let’s get to the good stuff!”

There were shouts of agreement all up and down the Courtyard. Most of the gathered Cybertronians were there for a show, and they waved around sparking pain-sticks like festive glow rods. Dialing the power on his stick to a low, sultry hum, a still weak but immensely cheerful Nova Storm tapped Ion Storm on his aft. Ion Storm whirled and brandished his own weapon, and a good-natured swordfight broke out between them.

“I know they are all guilty!” Pipes shouted back over the ruckus. “But there’s still rules you are supposed to follow, so punishment is _official!_ Just killing people without any due process is wrong! And … and I wrote a _speech_ and everything. I don’t want them to die to a pitchfork mob, I want _justice!”_

“I see,” and Megatron clued in to the true complaint after a moment’s consideration. “You are requesting a formal ceremony for the accused. One fully in line with our laws and customs.”  Pipes wanted to confront his tormentors, and more than that, he wanted legitimacy.

“Yeah,” Pipes said, swallowing as his intakes ran dry. Now conscious that everyone was staring at him in sheer disbelief, he almost took a step back. But he meant what he said, and so he straightened his spinal strut and held his ground instead of backing down.

Across from him, Snarl grinned encouragement from his position nestled between his gel-soaked, heavily med-patched and resting brothers. Thrilled that all the fighting was over, Snarl really didn’t care what happened to the aliens as long as _something_ did. Mob rule worked for him just fine. But Pipes cared and so the Dynobot was backing him up.

Nestled amidst the heavy Dynobots, a patched Bluestreak held his peace. He would have backed Pipes up too, but currently he was only barely visible from his position near the bottom of the massive cuddle-pile. He had tottered over to them not long after Hook had pronounced him 'alive enough to wait' and he'd wriggled his way down into the pile as deep as could be managed. Now only the tips of his slowly relaxing door-wings peeked out, twitching occasionally in his desperately needed sleep.

“Starscream and Ultra Magnus were officially sworn in but they are not present for various reasons. As Prime and I stepped down,” Megatron reminded everyone, “My powers over formal judicial proceedings remain within _Decepticon_ guidelines. Currently, I can preside over a Decepticon trial, only. Would that satisfy you?”

Pipes nodded and the scowling Decepticons all relaxed. Expressions smoothed over now that they knew the aliens wouldn’t be getting off easy. In some ways, Decepticon trials could be _worse_ than mob rule and some of them were even getting on board with the idea now.

Megatron dropped his hands to his hips and called out to the eager crowd, “Is that how the rest of you feel?”

“Oh _hell_ yeah,” Nova Storm summed up the crowd’s response from the celebratory headlock Ion Storm trapped him in. Megatron stepped forward. Placing his hand on Pipes’ shoulder, he called out, “Very well! Justice it is then!”

In the Bailiwick, Thundercracker and Onslaught listened to the madcap cheering while checking on their mechs in the med-bay.

Acid Storm looked crabbier than usual, perhaps because he was currently gagged and hog-tied to his berth. Even his wings were bound flat. A frowny-faced sticker denoting “naughty patient” on his forehelm completed the scene. Arguing with Hook over matters of medical care was generally a bad plan. Trying to sneak out of medical bed rest orders under Hook’s nasal sensor … _very bad plan!_

Thundercracker stared for a moment and then nodded in approval while his subordinate sulked. “You know better than that, Acid.” A crabby sniffle and the _scritch-scrape_ of bound wings was his only answer, but it was enough.

Lacking any restraints, Swindle was still unconscious and unable to cause any trouble yet. His body looked a ruined wreck, but Hook assured the hovering Onslaught that the jeep would pull through. “Bed rest for the next month,” Hook prescribed Swindle’s fate for the immediate future. “No exceptions.”

Satisfied Swindle would survive, Onslaught glanced over at a downcast Thundercracker, now standing over Dirge’s silent frame. “Enjoy the moment, at least. Allicon fraggers are finally getting what is coming to them. This is going to be fun.”

Moments later Megatron’s commanding voice boomed over internal comms. <This is Megatron, your leader. Rejoice! The last of our enemies have met defeat. We are victorious! For now, everyone who desires it may come to the Courtyard for a trial. Everyone who wishes to may attend. Then we will feast today and rest tonight.>

***

 

The titan-steel container was less a vault and more a coffin then was comfortable for Overlord.

Dumped inside by the Constructicons, Overlord was peering up at his ex-comrades, his confidence seeming unbroken, and he mused aloud that at least it was large enough for him to lay flat on his back; almost comfortable. He was unable to move and about to be buried alive, and still his trademark smirk never left his face plates.

Vortex arrived a few moments later. He kept glancing over his shoulder as if worried, and in his right hand dangled a medium-sized cage with something oily-swift moving around inside it. He handed the cage over to Brawl with a hissed, “No one saw me, but watch out because he’s fragging fast,” and went over to grin down at Overlord.

"We gotta take you in after this," Scavenger mumbled to Vortex. "Hook put out a hit for you. Supposed to be resting in the recovery cell." Vortex snorted, but shrugged. _Whatever._

“Oh damn,” and Mixmaster giggled again. He was doing a lot of that, all the way down. Then Scavenger spied the Rat and put two and two together and came out with _vengeance ala Brawl_ and Scavenger looked impressed. “You really do have the best ideas, Brawl!”

“Boss says we have to leave you here,” said Vortex as he peered down at Overlord with a vicious sneer. “We thought you might like some company while you wait.”

Mixmaster giggled out, “Company’s coming for dinner!” and mimed a chewing mouth with his fingers and Overlord’s smirk died an instant later.

“Can’t do this,” Overlord warbled. “Trial–”

Vortex bared his denta in glee as he stuffed a filthy rag in Overlord’s mouth to silence him as Brawl stomped over. “You are guilty as hell," Brawl growled at Overlord. "You should have known better than to start scrap with us. This is for Swindle, you sick frag. Trial? They can put your _endoskeleton_ on trial, 'cause that’s all that will be left of you after this.”

Brawl turned away and shook the Rat-former’s cage, “Listen _up_ you little glitch. The big bosses are coming back in a few vorns for this piston-licking ventwipe,” – he pointed at Overlord – “So if you want to be alive for the rescue party you better make him last.”

Breaking the cage lock, Brawl dumped the fuming Rat inside and slammed the vault door shut. They all began burying the heavy container, straining to hear any sound from inside, though the vault walls were too thick for sound to escape. One last kick-shuffle of gritty ash, and the Combaticons and Constructicons walked away without a backwards glance.

“Gonna bribe whoever has to come back for him for vid-captures when they open this back up,” Vortex laughed as they vanished into the gloom and headed back towards the light.

 


	18. Mendacity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Autobots get lulled into a false sense of security.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :) 
> 
> Warnings: graphic sticky sexual interfacing, angst, silliness, donuts.

After the shadow of death passed over, a deep calm descended over Uytis.

No longer did empty prayers herald the passing of the unfortunate. No longer did the hew of battle disturb the quiet. Now only one enemy stood unconquered; the bitter star remnant. Exquisite in his fiery cerements, the dying star's reign was as cruel as any ancient, wicked god. And yet, even he failed to disturb his subjects tonight. Blasting down into the sunken hole, his stabbing light met only silence.

Fuel tanks stuffed to the brim, most of the Cybertronians were sleeping off the burning day.  For some, this was the first time they'd fully relaxed since the Quintesson invasion.

Down in the Bailiwick, cooling fans were roaring. Anyone with turbines was running them full blast, taking advantage of the extra energy. Swooshing scrap filled the corridors in twisting dust devils, bolstered by the whipping wind currents. Underlying that murmurous noise was the rustling of mechs tossing and turning for the heat.

"Too fragging hot," Acid Storm mumbled. He stretched his aching plating, only to regret it an instant later. Everything hurt.

Nova Storm and Ion Storm cracked open their optics. The sound of his moaning complaint tugged at their sparks, and Ion Storm huffed in sleepy agreement. They’d rescued him from the med-station the instant Hook went down for recharge, secreting their trine mate away to bed down with them.

"Tell me something new," Nova Storm said as he lifted and dropped his bright yellow wings with a cheerful _click,_ even as Ion Storm redirected his turbines in Acid's direction to help cool him.

Down on the floor, an uninvited Nautilator remained hidden under Acid Storm's berth. Flat on his back, tail waving with his many legs stretched wide, the Seacon was well and truly enjoying the breeze.

Having moved indoors to sleep, the Dynobots also appreciated the wind currents. They were still snoozing together. Separated for so long, they were loath to leave each other for longer than a few breems. Pipes slept against Snarl's side, his expression peaceful. His face was nestled close as his body lifted and fell for the larger mech's deep, slow in-vents.

Tolerated (adopted) by Sludge and Slag, Bluestreak was still concealed between them. The two heavy bodies were a counterweight to Bluestreak's aching frame, and the rattle of their ventilations served a lullaby that soothed him off to recharge. Still battered and sore and muzzled, he hadn't returned to Hook yet, too mistrusting of the former Decepticons to venture far from the Dynobots. Luckily, he seemed to have fallen under the belligerent surgeon's radar.

For now, anyway.

The Combaticons were also restless for the heat and their injuries. Vortex had been the first to drift off, still handcuffed to his berth in the med-station.

Swindle, too, remained in the med-station proper. He was too injured to move, and yet too confused to stay quiet. Squirming, he seemed unaware he was already rescued. He couldn't relax, and it wasn’t long before his soft cries lured Onslaught from the Combaticon’s cell-room.

Resigning himself to rest in Hook's territory, Onslaught plunked down on the rickety stool and settled close. He pressed one hand across Swindle’s chest plate, his fingers splayed over Swindle’s strobing spark, and then folded his other arm under his helm to recharge.

“Hey,” the half-conscious jeep hiccuped in his audial, still confused. “Lil’ help here?”

Onslaught straightened back up and considered. Then he slid an arm under the smaller mech. Tucking him close, Onslaught joined him on the berth, rolling on his side for the close quarters. He slung Swindle’s leg over his hip, keeping the Jeep's legs stretched wide so that his sore components didn't rub on each other.

Snuggling close, Swindle immediately calmed for the contact. Unflappable under normal circumstances, right now only Onslaught’s proximity could reassure Swindle. Even in his barely conscious state, one truth still pierced the haze. If Onslaught was here, things had to be alright. His brass bearings were damn nigh insurmountable.

Back in the Combaticon’s cell-room, Brawl was still awake. Tossing and turning for the heat, he couldn’t sleep either. Frame humming with a heady mix of frustration, anxiety, and aggression, he finally got up. Tromping down to check on his team mate, a stunned Brawl found himself looming over the entangled Onslaught and Swindle.

Staring down at them, two concepts competed for space down the same circuit line, in the same data storage slot: Onslaught’s massive bearings and Onslaught cuddling Swindle. Both were truth; one figurative, one literal. His optics twitched as both concepts bludgeoned each other until both fit within the same space.

_Okay._

“You either make yourself useful or go back to your own berth,” Onslaught growled. His normal insecurity for such displays was firmly drowned out by the memory-file of Swindle’s shrieks. Now that he had unfettered access, he wasn’t moving for anything. Not tonight. Moreover, he had no patience for any slaggity-slag from Brawl.

Fortunately, Brawl seemed too tired to dredge up anything appropriately crass or obnoxious. Instead, and with a huff of relief for the acceptance at such a charged moment, the unrepentant troublemaker stepped forward to join his fearless leader and their resident con-artist on the tiny berth.

“He smells like leaking slag,” Brawl muttered as he leaned over them. Under his blast mask, his lip plating curled downward for the stench wafting up from Swindle, who still reeked of torture ... of burnt metal and _hurting_.

Onslaught grunted. “I know. Going to steal him away for a shower tomorrow.”

“Lemme know when,” Brawl offered as he climbed into the tiny medical berth. “I’ll run interference.”

Working together, they sandwiched Swindle between them, wrapping themselves around him like a heavy metal blanket. They both settled down and drifted off to the sound of Swindle's sleepy mumbles and comforted engine-heaves.

***

The day crawled by with enormous reluctance.

Down in the dark of the sunken ship, wheezy vents and rattling fans marked the unseen star’s slow journey across the sky. Then a heaving gasp broke the quiet as Skywarp lurched upright. Only darkness greeted him, and for a spark-pounding moment he was utterly confused for where he was. He'd shut his turbines off in his sleep and now the pitch-black and yawning quiet frightened him. Reminded of the previous day – joors spent shaking in mortal terror – his wings flared to their widest span.

Then Skywarp's memory-core rebooted, spitting out a connection error as recollection of the previous day came screaming back. He was rescued. He was safe. He was surrounded by naked Autobots.

Relieved, Skywarp took another moment to look around.

His nasal sensor wrinkled for the stale air and his optics functioned as flashlights to illuminate the darkness blanketed around him. Materials lined the walls, piled up here and there, along with little gears, hoses, wiring, and other delicate components. Various piles of half-dismembered (long dead) mechanisms stacked up to the ceiling added to the 'going to be axed to death in my sleep' homey feel. 

With all the clutter everywhere, the bigger picture of his surroundings remained hidden… Skywarp was still convinced he was in some sort of basement shed. A dark basement shed. A shed filled with bare-aft mechs, even.

 _All still asleep,_ Skywarp realized as all around him, their whispering ventilations filled the air.

Whatever the questionable state of his surroundings, his quiet hosts made up for it in spades. Internal repairs along with Ratchet’s excellent patchwork left him feeling so much better. He'd been drowsing in and out in waves, and his intact frame and the darkness of the ship kept him comfortable enough.

Settling back, the Seeker glanced over at the two scientists. He didn’t know their names, or anything about them, really. But the look of them reminded him of the posh establishments he used to frequent. The sleek dancers there had been bare like this, and Starscream used to moonlight as one before the war; he’d sometimes gone along to help ‘Screamer divest himself of his armor and paint him in temporary colors to hide his identity for performances.

Shanix was shanix back then, and Starscream had helped keep a roof over their helms and energon in their tanks during some real bad times. The look was exotic to him then, exquisite now as such places no longer existed for the war.

Remembering their response to his touch, Skywarp decided to press his luck. He reached out, running his servo over a bare back, loving the feel of the soft mesh under his fingers. Stroking first one and then the other, they warmed to him almost immediately. A few more strokes and their spikes peeked from their sheaths and little glimmers of lubricant pearled along their valves.

The hot-engine scent from them was much stronger, though his borrowed guardian pheromones had faded in the night. He frowned a little, unsure how long he had until his own guardian coding became active. Hopefully not. He didn’t like the thought of being controlled by such primitive coding. No one did, though everyone made the best of it. There was no hope of removing it until they could get to a real medical center.

Meanwhile, Perceptor and Wheeljack were stirring for his petting. Curling over like cats for the touches, they woke and startled when they realized the source of the pleasing sensations. Skywarp could see their concern and embarrassment for their bare ports and uninhibited reactions for their needy frames. Without scent-markers for assurance, they remained shy of him. Their carrier coding urged caution, but he was no threat.

Blinking at him, they looked down at themselves and then abruptly realized their empty valves. Shocked, delighted clicks ensued. Overwhelmed with relief, they checked over themselves and then each other, fingers touching and searching and exploring. Their excited chirps and clicks were almost lost to the drone of Skywarp’s turbines, now rising to a steady thrum as air currents burst into existence around them.

The background noise seemed to work as no one else stirred for the happy uproar. Skywarp didn't want the others awake yet; he wanted to focus on these two without interference.

Waving at the delighted scientists, Skywarp grinned and identified himself as the culprit. He kept the key-logger hidden, not wanting to chance Hook discovering the truth later. Hook was one to hold grudges, after all. They tended to manifest themselves as soon as the source of his ire was bound helpless to his medical berth; never a situation one wanted to find oneself in.

Wiggling his fingers as an explanation ... _yep, freed you myself_... Skywarp was further pleased when the two scientists looked impressed. While they peered at his fingers, Skywarp realized they’d pressed their own hands over their ports in a subconscious display of embarrassment; he was covered by modesty panels while they remained bare.

Skywarp just smiled at them. With a disarming flick of his wings, he made a show of opening his panels and bared himself for their inspection … acknowledging and then heading off that sense of imbalance at the pass.

“…See?” Skywarp whispered playfully and grinned down at himself. “We are all the same now … oh and look, I'm happy to see you too.”

His wings flexed as he courted them, the seductive movements and inviting tones unmistakable. His playful draw had the desired effect. The tension in their frames dropped little by little, and he was further encouraged when their shy servos fell away, no longer hiding from him.

Percy and 'Jack looked at each other with a tempted – _you really think we should?_ – while their lower frames assured them, oh yes, would like some of that, please and definitely. Their secondary inner valves chimed agreement, pulsing hungrily. Gestation tanks dreadfully low, any safe opportunity to fill them was tempting.

Carefully, Skywarp reached out and stroked along the nearest one's neck. He was pleased when the scientist didn't lean away. Neither did the engineer. Moving slowly, he was attentive to their moods, letting them set his pace. His thumb trailed gently along pulsing energon lines, and he could feel Perceptor was running hot, already shivering with arousal.

Both were trickling little drops of lubricant, and slipped a little closer, and then Skywarp felt confident enough to draw Perceptor against him with a little smile. Perceptor was the shyer of the two, and he decided to focus on him first, even while coaxing the other closer.

Stroking down Perceptor’s back, Skywarp positioned them one on each side. They seemed intimately familiar with each other, and he was sure they had been berth mates at some point. Good enough. He pulled the shy mech into his lap, facing outward and then enticed Wheeljack’s hands to Perceptor’s frame.

“Help me out here,” Skywarp murmured to Wheeljack as he nuzzled the back of Percy’s neck, kissing a warm trail down the sleek line of his chin.

 _Primus_ , his mesh was so very soft.

Wheeljack pressed himself to Perceptor’s front, claiming his mouth. Now constrained between both frames, he was being worshiped from both sides. Hot intakes traced over his sweet spots. Wheeljack already knew every sensitive place by spark, and Skywarp was quick to follow his lead. 

Skywarp settled onto his back with Percy resting above him. Sliding his spike along the crease, he rubbed his spikehead against the sensitive rim, teasing at the soft slit. Percy’s soft moan marked the moment he finally squeezed past the plush folds and inside.

That first thrust of throbbing spike across his inner sensors had the hypersensitive nodes setting off, and with a soft cry, Perceptor was already peaking, tipping over into his first overload.

All the while, Wheeljack was tormenting Perceptor’s anterior node with his glossa while stroking his fingers over Percy’s straining spike. He teased at the tiny slit at the top with his thumb and then wrapped his servo around the pulsing length, slick from the tiny streams of pre-fluid. Enclosing his mouth over the spikehead and sucking firmly, he squeezed the rest of the length, settling into a _stroke-suck-stroke-suck_ rhythm as Percy struggled to thrust into his hand while quivering for the hot charge filling his every intimate node from Skywarp’s steady, plunging thrusts.

Skywarp could feel the secondary valve cover already opening, and he plunged his spikehead into that tight little space, whispering " _shhh shhh shhh"_ as he covered Percy’s mouth to keep his strangled pleasure-cries from disturbing the other Autobots.

Percy writhed in his arms, overwhelmed by yet another overload, valve _and_ spike all at once, transfluid beading at his tip to spread over Wheeljack’s flicking glossa, sucking at the slit to collect every tiny drop.

How many was this now? Skywarp wished he’d kept count. _Wonder how many I can coax out of him before I can_ – and the thought was gone in a flash when Skywarp’s world collapsed into a pleasure-drenched haze as Wheeljack licked and suckled along their joined connection. The cool mouth suckled at the base of his spike, while fingers circled Percy’s pulsing anterior node.

Perceptor bucked into the sensation, fully overstimulated, and then Wheeljack settled down atop him and a second spike nudged at his throbbing slit.

Frantic needy chirps erupted from Percy’s throat, _yes, yes, yes,_ he wanted to shriek, but couldn’t, no words, nothing to describe the incredible sensations, exquisitely tortuous and then his back arched as the second spike filled him, rubbing and thrusting in time with Skywarp.

Both spikes plunged in hot rhythm, and then Skywarp couldn’t hold out any longer. How many times had the smaller mech overloaded around his spike? He wasn’t sure, and then the tightness in his own array burst and he strangled back his shout, spilling out into Perceptor’s clenching, rippling valve. Pulse after pulse, Skywarp jetted his transfluid into the inner valve, the tight squeeze exquisite across his spike.

With a shuddering gasp, Skywarp collapsed back, his cooling vents full throttle. “Fragging hell. I don’t care if the coding is activated now, not if this is the result,” he whispered in Percy’s audial. “ _Frag me_. That was intense.”

Pulling out was a little on the difficult side. “Primus,” Skywarp murmured as he had to battle to reclaim his spike from Perceptor’s insistent calipers. _More, more, more_ , was the message as they clenched around him, pulsing encouragement.

“Gotta share the love,” and Skywarp grinned for the pleasure-soaked daze on Percy’s face. His wings flicked playfully as he pulled out and rolled over.

Bright blue optics caught his red ones… Wheeljack was curled in on himself, watching Skywarp almost fearfully. His fist was pressed against his own throbbing valve. His expression was vulnerable as if fearful he was to go without while suddenly embarrassed for his own aching need.

Skywarp reached for him, “No, I haven’t forgotten about _you_ ,” and pulled ‘Jack closer.

Perceptor's hesitant withdrawal gusted a wash of hot air over Skywarp’s still-eager spike. His connector knew freedom for the barest moment until Wheeljack all but frantically mounted his erect spike. The engineer was shaking with anticipation, already half-way there even as he sank onto Skywarp’s length.

“Oh Primus you are _tight_ ,” Skywarp murmured in appreciation. Then he rolled them, pulling the trembling Wheeljack beneath him, gearing up to deliver a _damned_ good fragging as the engineer was already awash with lubricant and ready.

“Gonna make you scream my name,” Skywarp whispered to the shivering frame beneath him, “And yeah, I know you can’t talk.”

Around them, the Autobots slept on.

***

Topside, all was quiet, and so quietly passed the afternoon.

Most Cybertronians were still snoozing off the last of the burning day. Relaxed for the first time in ages, by the tail-end of the same cycle, all that could be heard throughout the open spaces were rustling internal fans and the dynobot's momentous snores.

Only a very few were still awake. Restless for his empty berth, Megatron was one of them. He had long given up on recharge and commed Skywarp instead, demanding an update. He was disappointed to learn the Autobots were all still sequestered underground. Wandering out, he soon found himself standing on the grate above their hollow, but there was no movement below. All his attempts to call Prime out to talk went unanswered... and he ended his attempts with an expression almost as slumped as his shoulders.

Now Megatron was wandering the light-dappled Courtyard, lost in thought. He paced the silent spaces while appreciating the rare quiet. Finally, he climbed to the top of the wreckage and stood tall as the star's penetrating light reflected off his plating. The bright light highlighted his dents and cuts and slashes; a proud roadmap of battles hard won.

Helm thrown back, Megatron glowered up at the blue star burning down upon him like a fallen son of heaven. Then the faintest creak of shifting gears caught his attention and he glanced over his shoulder.

Also sleepless, Thundercracker was sitting nearby, his wings relaxed and optics adrift. A frown of concentration touched his lips. His helm tilted _just so_ and not for the first time did Megatron wish he'd had more luck coaxing Thundercracker into his berth.

All around his sleek Air Commander were curious piles of trash. The faintest of airy whistles from rusty vents were the only hint the trash-drifts were living beings; the last of the Junkions.

A frown tugged at Megatron's intakes for the reminder. He'd ordered them dispatched only to have _Pipes_ — of all mechs! — facing him down moments later. The timid little mech had impressed the hell out of him, getting right up into his face plates to howl denials. He was less surprised when Thundercracker joined Pipes to stand up for the traitorously loyal Junkions.

Megatron had responded to that challenge by making his Air Commander responsible for them, washing his servos of them. It was a charge Thundercracker had accepted without a qualm; even promising his new charges that he’d see them back to the planet of Junk. Winning them over had been as simple as that. Now the last surviving Junkions stayed as close to TC as he would allow.

Too focused on his writing, Thundercracker only stirred when a clatter of warning from a disturbed trash-pile announced Megatron’s presence. He looked up from where he was resting in the shade of the toppled troop-carrier.

“Good work down below,” Megatron called to Thundercracker, his frame crowned by blinding light. “Thanks to your quick thinking, we can focus on rescuing the Autobots and escaping this rock.”

Thundercracker’s wings flared, scattering light across his panels. Praise from Megatron was rare and to be savored. He sat up a little straighter. “I saw your request last night and checked with Long Haul,” he called back to Megatron. “Scavenger and my Junkion tech will begin prepping the energy shield for the move to the ceiling as soon as the sleep cycle ends.”

Megatron made a thoughtful noise. He tracked the receding light as the star crept nearer the horizon he couldn’t see. “Will that be enough to keep us alive long term?”

“Yes and no,” Thundercracker answered, and his wings dropped a micron. “We can shoulder through it, but the Autobots can’t. That’s why I sent you the meeting request last night.”

“Options?”

Thundercracker leaned forward. “We can get the energy shield up there today and block enough of the heat for everyone to stay comfortable.”

Megatron curled his fingers over his intake. “Then I’m not seeing the problem?”

“The problem comes after that. The air conditioning unit is on its last legs. Long Haul checked it again, and he says it won't last more than a few cycles. As soon as it fails, the Autobots will start dying of heat exhaustion.”

Megatron frowned. “I see.”

“The Quint’s troop carrier is turning out to be quite the gift,” Thundercracker continued. “Scavenger is cobbling together a cutter from the carrier’s cannons. It will be a few cycles before he is done, and we should have a small buffer from the caves before the heat becomes lethal. But until then, we still can’t reach them unless they let us.”

“Mm. Cutting it close,” and Megatron tilted his helm back to glower once again at his last remaining adversary. Stabbing beams of bright light speared his optics, and he knew the star hated him, too. “Perhaps it would be best to station mechs down below to capture them as they appear.”

“As soon as we start chasing them they will go to ground and be much harder to corner," Thundercracker warned. "They certainly won’t come willingly if dragged from their shelter.”

Megatron barked a slight laugh. “At this point, better frightened than dead.”

“As we cannot explain ourselves,” Thundercracker admitted, “It may come to that. In the meantime, consider leaving them to me to deal with. At least until the cutter is finished. I am certain that giving them their space would work in our favor in the long run. If they become confident of our indifference in the time it takes Scavenger to finish, we may be able to seize them all at once.”

Megatron looked dubious, but he was also less excited with the prospect of force now that he’d made some progress with Prime. He still held hope he could coax his counterpart from the underdark by non-aggressive means. It would be easier on them both. He was almost certain their tenuous bond of trust would go up in smoke if he resorted to dragging his vulnerable counterpart out from the deceptive safety of their little bolt-hole.

Remembering the feel of his counterpart’s body against his own, he wished he could remember their interfacing. Waking up so entangled was a memory that never failed to rouse his interface array, but try as he might, he couldn’t remember anything from the point he’d collapsed for the gas.

“Very well,” Megatron conceded after a reluctant pause. “For now, have Skywarp keep an optic on them. I still wish to be advised the instant any of them leave their little… cave.”

Sunset was still a few joors away. The persistent heat licked along their plating as they conversed until the ends glowed bright red. Finally, even with their thick armor, the two war builds were forced to retreat from the Courtyard.

Heading towards the far caves, Megatron continued his walk. He was considering cleaning out Overlord's old quarters and claiming them for himself, and decided to head that direction, to inspect them. They would be far better for himself and Prime then his current setup. Beyond the added privacy, there was a shower and a few other facilities Prime might find useful in his condition ... and he knew the distraction would help keep him sane while he waited.

Wings floating wide, Thundercracker headed indoors as well. Pleased for the concession, he was already composing the instructions he intended to send to the rest of them regarding the Autobots. His light pede-steps parted the trash-piles like rusty waves as he led his entourage back into the Bailiwick.

 

* * *

 

**TWO DAYS LATER**

 

It started like it normally did.

The star had set, well vanished beyond the horizon, and Optimus, Jazz, and Sideswipe were busy scavenging for the scientists.

In the gloaming, the penitentiary was dark and this was the only time the Autobots were functional anymore. There _were_ fragments of light here and there, from a string of spotlights above. They had been set up recently and now the underdark was marginally lit by those piercing beams of light. Accustomed to functioning in pitch-blackness, the brightness was almost novel to them.

For Optimus, it was more than a little worrying.

Picking over the oft-searched trash near the hollow, they were searching for any usable scrap they might have missed as Optimus refused to venture further out. He didn’t feel it was safe, much to the bolder Jazz and Sideswipe’s annoyance. There wasn’t much they hadn’t already picked over, and so it wasn’t long before the shenanigans started, from the usual culprit.

Sideswipe, still on his tether, pushed his much larger leader out of the way with an impish grin. Snatching up the useless piece of dreck pinned under Optimus' foot, he waved it around in mock triumph. Then he did it again. And again...as apparently the best scavenging was always right under Optimus' pede.

Unable to wander far or otherwise start much trouble, the little prankster was amusing himself as best he could. Another insistent push. Another bit of useless scrap salvaged from under Optimus.

Glancing down, Optimus quirked a brow ridge at Sideswipe and held his ground. _Settle down, Lambo._ He found the little game more amusing then irritating, but was trying to hide it. Encouraging this particular subordinate was always a mistake. Thus he resorted to threatening with a few firm gestures... _will turn this scouting party around if you don't stop…_ and yet the hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth undermined him.

Even with his threats, Optimus was less inclined to discourage him. Sideswipe was fighting and fooling around with Optimus as he’d always done with Sunstreaker. More important, he was laughing again. It was a heartening sound, and worth enduring the near-constant antics.

Again and again Sir Lambo charged Prime's Windmill of Patience. Finally Optimus gave in and pushed him right back, gently rolling the smaller mech over and away. 'Sides leapt back half a breath later and a less-then-dignified jostling match ensued.

'Round the next trash drift, Jazz's audials rose up over the crest like a shark’s fin as he shot the two roughhousing mechs an amused grin.

When he'd had enough, Optimus finally rolled Sideswipe away. Lumbering to his pedes, he reclaimed his commanding presence. _Enough now,_ Optimus rumbled his engine, and bent to return to task.

But it wasn't long before Sideswipe was back with a new game; entangling his tether around anything and everything. Ignoring him was impossible, as he was soon entrapped by the tether winding around every heavy thing within reach.

 _Why you little_...

After a little more back and forth, Optimus felt forced to break up their play-fight for safety's sake. He was still concerned for the Decepticons above them. They were always … relentlessly _…_ nearby. Not to mention their resident Decepticon Seeker.

It was worrying to have Skywarp with them, even though Wheeljack and Perceptor enjoyed his attention. Oh, the mech was acting friendly enough. Even Jazz was starting to soften, now the only one to go without needed interaction. But Ratchet was suspicious, and moreover a keen judge of character.

Optimus echoed his worry. It wasn't lost on him that no matter how careful they were, Decepticons always showed up not long after they crept out to scavenge. Yet none of the Decepticons disturbed them. The quiet lingered like the calm of some remote lake and they were growing bolder for it. Too bold, perhaps.

 _Need to quiet down_ , and Optimus lifted and then dropped his palm.

Sideswipe gave him a playful look and circled his servos, pointing out it was currently clear. _Geeze, relax a little._ Then he splattered Optimus with some muck he’d collected on his servos. Accident, of course. So sorry!

With a huff, Optimus pounced on him, intending to wipe his own messy fingers on the dirty little mech. Their wrestling match resumed as two grown-aft mechs rolled around with each other and Sideswipe’s delighted chirps carried across the underdark.

A sudden creak and the soft crunch of pedes broke up their little game and Optimus froze and ducked down an instant later. The noise forewarned them of company, and Optimus felt more than saw a graceful shadow pass overhead. The footsteps were light. A flight frame, perhaps. The rest of his Autobots shrank back as well, trying not to attract attention. From the lack of hesitation, Optimus was certain his little group had gone undetected.

Or not.

There was a _plop_ as a satchel dropped between the grate next to them even as the flight frame continued to walk away. Optimus fell back, but Sideswipe snatched at the little gift and opened it with bright, curious optics.

Inside contained several large portions of cooling gel, and a container of soup. Another friendly gesture; the last few days had been full of them.

Optimus peered up through the grating, hesitant and confused for the constant showings of support. His processor recalled pleasing memory-files of waking tangled around Megatron, but he pushed those memories away. He almost wanted to refuse the gift… though they needed the gel for the heat of the day and he subspaced the satchel.

But something _was_ wrong and Prowl was proof of that.

He still didn’t know what had happened to Prowl, but he couldn't trust Megatron or his own judgment anymore. Not while so damaged. The priority now was to fix the sunken ship and escape. He could engage Megatron on equal footing once he was repaired...and after emergence. Until then, they were all simply too vulnerable to take any risks.

Now if only someone could convince Sideswipe of that.

***

 

Sideswipe recognized the light pede steps for what they were, a Seeker’s graceful tread. A sudden rush of longing saw him up through the slats before he’d thought it through.

Sideswipe heard Optimus’ hissed warning, but it was too late. Thundercracker had already turned back as the little Lambo straightened and smiled hesitantly at him. The blue Seeker immediately dropped down to one knee and showed his bare servos, in an attempt to look less threatening.

Sideswipe felt Optimus’ frantic tug on the tether – _get back down here!_ – but held his ground and clicked a bold and cheerful thanks towards Thundercracker. He cut to the chase a moment later. Pointing at a much lighter blue color (a bit of looping wire served the purpose) Sideswipe then gestured at Thundercracker’s wings. _Where is the other blue one? Where is Ion Storm?_

“Right here,” called a familiar voice, and Sideswipe turned and grinned at his friend. Bounding over, he hugged the light flight frame, breathing in that welcome scent.

“Missed you too,” Ion Storm murmured, sinking down to his knees and pulling the other mech closer. Down below, anxious engine rumbles announced Prime’s intense displeasure with the situation.

Sideswipe grinned and was about to return to Optimus when Ion Storm teased a servo down his back suggestively. Hesitating, looking between the two mechs with their competing pulls on his spark, Ion Storm’s playful little gesture of – maybe a quickie then? – was too irresistible.

“Prime’s losing his marbles,” Thundercracker said, “So you better make it quick. Good work, by the way. Nice to see at least one of them trusts us.”

Ion Storm didn’t answer. His intakes were already sealed around Sideswipe’s, his thumbs rubbing circles lower and lower down Sideswipe’s belly, down to his array.

Sideswipe fell back as Ion Storm sank inside him a moment later. The familiar weight of him was beyond comforting. Blue wings filled his vision, sleek and erotic, and he moaned into Ion Storm’s neck for the too-slow movements.

Ion Storm took hold of his hips to support him, fingers curling possessively and Sideswipe dropped his hands to the base of Ion Storm’s wings in reply. Rubbing up and down the sensitive panels, he loved the airy gasp touching them always invoked. He squeezed his hips, urging Ion Storm onward… _faster, faster_.

Calipers clenched down and then Ion Storm gave in to his urging, picking up the pace and thrusting into him. Good, powerful thrusts, delicious and satisfying, and ‘Sides threw his legs around Ion Storm’s hips and held on. Charge crackled between their nodes, lightening-joy surging down their sensor lines, and tension built swiftly and his deeper places cycled open, ready to receive the gift on offer.

Then Sideswipe cried out his overload into Ion Storm’s chest, clenching down _hard_ as Ion Storm followed him over, plunging in deep and holding, spilling out in generous bursts.

“Not even an astro-second…quickie as promised.” Ion Storm chuckled into Sideswipe’s audial, nuzzling the bare metal. “Not sure if I should be proud or ashamed.”

An instant later another carrying mech popped up through the grate, hunched low and threatening. Lunging forward, he grabbed at Sideswipe and began to pull him away, clutching ‘Sides with one hand while threatening the two Seekers with the other. It would be laughable to see such a menacing air from such an unprotected, damaged mech, except for the reputation said mech brought to bear.

“Watch out for that one,” Thundercracker called warning, urging Ion Storm to keep his distance from that irritated little Autobot. He recognized the distinctive face plate and helm audials. “He always has a blade on him.”

Jazz was no joke… not in any form, not in any condition.

Ion Storm frowned, still holding Sideswipe. “He still has that _thing_ in his valve, too. I thought they were clear of them.”

“Not him.” Thundercracker shook his helm. “Skywarp can’t coax him close enough. Apparently he freaks out whenever anyone touches it.”

Seeing them staring, Jazz dropped his gaze to his bare interface ports and then back up with a challenging glint. It was a correct assessment of the situation. Ratchet hadn’t bought Skywarp’s ‘clever fingers’ story and he’d frisked Skywarp down until he’d given up the key-logger.

All well and good.

The problem reared its ugly helm when it came time for Jazz to lay down for the removal. Jazz had always gotten in line with the others to have his apparatus removed, wanting it gone as bad as any of them. But when fingers actually touched him there, he’d panicked. Awake when the thing had gone in, the cold terror that gripped him was a deep and mindless thing, a visceral reaction. He’d never come to terms with those tortures. Writhing away from Ratchet’s gentle fingers, he was simply unable to submit.

Everyone was affected differently by their captivity; Optimus and Ratchet were suppressing their fear and grief in unhealthy ways. Optimus was growing more and more anxious and controlling of his little family as time passed. Had he been capable of introspection, he may have recognized his intense desire to hold and comfort was somewhat of a projection of his own needs.

Ratchet was inflicted with a particular hurting, with a strut-deep confusion laid over the top of the fear and ache. Thanks to maltreatment and poor conditions, he’d lost his newspark. The little life had reabsorbed without so much as a hello or goodbye. Gone and lost… and his spark was particularly twisted into knots for feelings of relief from the loss of that burden, and shame for feeling relieved. On top of _that_ was seeing the confused shame-hope-fear of his comrades all around him, forced to face what was coming, and a few even managing to start developing bonds.

Some of them, anyway. Sideswipe was denying his status for the most part, drowning out those worries and concerns and his inevitable future by rededicating himself to his comrades. More viscerally, he drowned them out by constantly playing with Optimus, unconsciously substituting Optimus for his brother, needing that lifeline to normality.

The two scientists had an impossible task to focus on, and it was no small part of their progress that keeping busy kept the demons away. They’d been leaning heavily on each other almost from the moment of waking, as their shared scientific background made communication and cooperation much easier.

No one understood what was happening with Prowl, as he hid himself from them, preferring to drown himself in anger. More than any of them, he needed his space. Unlike the others, his tormentors were not so clear cut, and he had damned good reason for rejecting any sort of forced physical touch from his own kind. For the others, cruelty and suffering had a clearer label; distinct with five faces and intrusive tentacles.

“That _thing_ has to come out,” Ion Storm muttered to Thundercracker. “And I feel sorry for the poor, probably blue-winged glitch that gets that task.” It was his round-about way of volunteering, though he really, really wasn’t looking forward to it.

The Autobots had shared his reluctance. After he’d panicked, the Autobots had all turned and looked at Jazz, blue optics glowing in the darkness, filled with kind understanding and sorrow. No one had pushed him, but Ratchet and Optimus had shared anxious looks. The task was daunting. The damned thing had to come out, but no one wanted to hold Jazz down. No one wanted to inflict more trauma on him, even for the greater good. It was coming though, and Jazz was looking forward to it least of all.

“Take it easy,” Ion Storm soothed at Jazz. He let the satiated, dreamy-eyed Sideswipe slide off his lap without the slightest resistance. Pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, Ion Storm was gratified when he seemed reluctant to leave. Better yet, Jazz saw that display of trust and affection, though the black and white’s suspicious little frown remained.

Then a disdainful snort broke in, rude and uninvited. “They look filthy,” Sunstreaker said as he sniffed at the air. “And I can smell them from here.”

Sunstreaker had come up behind the little group, quiet as a shadow. Scowling at the carrying mech that had groped him previously, he stomped his pede in threat and watched as the smaller mech dove back down through the slats. Satisfied, Sunstreaker did something he normally never did and forgave the grubby little deviant’s previous offenses.

Jazz, which Sunstreaker did recognize, fled right behind the smaller mech, tossing the golden twin a disgusted glower as he vanished down under the slats. That was fine, they never got along anyway.

The two Seekers were far less satisfied. “What?” Sunstreaker blinked at the flight-frame’s vicious expressions.

“These are your friends,” and Ion Storm sounded incredulous. “What the frag is your problem?”

“They aren’t all my friends,” Sunstreaker retorted. “And that one _groped_ me while I was _unconscious_. Just letting him know my boundaries, that’s all.”

There was so many things wrong with that statement that Thundercracker just narrowed his optics. Long association with the Decepticons had taught him that, sometimes, some mechs weren’t worth the effort and so he laid down the law instead.

“This is a protected area,” and Thundercracker took a harsh step forward, his eyes blazing. “No one comes down here unless authorized, as per my orders.”

And Thundercracker wasn't joking. Only the Armada and Onslaught's team (his mechs held firmly in his tight fist) were allowed down to the lowest levels as a rule. And the Combaticons were on protection duty only; no direct interaction with the Autobots.

Thundercracker only trusted his mechs to fully behave themselves. He was already summoning the rest of the Armada to back him up. Their answering pings filled his HUD, and he was only kliks away from slipping into a battle stance. He was in command here, and he was prepared to beat the ever loving frag out of this mech to enforce his orders.

“So frag off!” Ion Storm finished for his Air Commander.

Snapping his intimate panels closed, Ion Storm got to his pedes and asked, “Why are you even down here if you aren’t going to be helpful? They can’t help what’s been done to them. And they are carrying, which means they need certain kinds of help that they can’t properly ask for.”

Sunstreaker stared at them, speechless. The queer nature of the situation finally registered in his grief-addled processor. _Decepticons_ were preaching understanding and tolerance at him. The realization poked through the blinding, angry haze of grief that surrounded him, reminding him that he wasn’t the only one who’d lost everything. That he wasn’t the only one fragged to the pit and back.

“Whatever,” Sunstreaker muttered and turned away, suddenly embarrassed for his actions and unsure how to handle it. He broke off and strode away instead, hands clenched at his sides.

“Hate that aft-helm,” Ion Storm muttered after the retreating golden twin and Thundercracker nodded agreement. The reunion dashed, the two strode off, plotting amongst themselves. Even interrupted, today had been encouraging.

Then Vortex rounded the corner, optics perusing the area as if looking for someone. He caught sight of that damned fine aft, and started after Sunstreaker, pushing past the retreating Seekers on his way towards what he hoped would be a good time.

“I wouldn’t,” Ion Storm warned over his shoulder, but Vortex just waved him off.

For Vortex was a firm believer in fortune favoring the bold, and so was already making his move.

***

Sideswipe dropped through the grating like a demon was riding his bumper.

Optimus leapt for him as soon as he was within reach, spark throbbing with anxiety. Rolling the smaller mech underneath him, Optimus found himself fighting off the mother of all carrier moments, nearly squishing the endlessly naughty Lambo close while visions of a dismembered Bumblebee danced behind his optics. Above them, the various footsteps headed off.

It seemed the Autobots were to be left alone.

Once again, the Decepticons hadn’t behaved aggressively towards them. Perplexing. Meanwhile, Jazz bopped Sideswipe over the head — _are you nuts mech?! Did you seriously just pull that slag again?!_ — and then all three hesitated as sharp voices rose in anger, one of them very familiar.

 _Sunstreaker again,_ and Optimus recognized that voice, though his sight was too blurry to make out any details. Under him, Sideswipe was staring upwards with wide, tense optics. His haunted expression told a calming Optimus better than words that something was wrong. He was surprised and wrapped an arm around the smaller mech.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were normally inseparable. Optimus had been hoping for some sort of explanation for … everything … from the golden twin. Instead, there was only this fearful retreat from Sideswipe. So very confusing. Yet another indication something was wrong. Not for the first time did Optimus curse the Quintesson for stealing such a vital part of himself; he knew communication would make all the difference here.

Then harsh glyphs from above further distracted them; now some idiot was annoying Sunstreaker. Said idiot spoke with a cocky, cutting purr, identifying the culprit as Vortex. Sunstreaker snapped something negative, and then Vortex followed up with a sharp slapping sound, a particular _ting_ of a flat palm hitting a shapely golden aft.

The conflict escalated as one might expect.

 

***

 

Instantly enraged, Sunstreaker whirled on Vortex.

Vortex was startled for the violence, but still managed to hold his own for the briefest of moments. But then the dancing shuffle of embattled pede-steps became more and more one-sided as the highly skilled Sunstreaker began to overpower the lighter Vortex.

Moments later the rest of the Combaticons (sans Swindle who was still on bed rest) arrived to break up the fight, shouting warnings as they charged, the grating above rattling for the pede stampede.

Onslaught was the first to force his way between the combatants, and waved off Sunstreaker's enraged explanation for the fight. “You have a reputation for appreciating mouthy mechs and enjoying a rough frag,” he said to Sunstreaker. “Vortex was just trying to engage you.” His tone was calm and almost apologetic, or at least as close to that state as he could manage.

“You gotta sweet aft,” Brawl agreed with enthusiasm. “I’d hit that like the fist of an angry—”

Onslaught yelled over their internal comms. <Brawl! You are not helping! You and Vortex go check on Swindle. He just pinged me, says he tried to leave the med-station for a walk and now Hook’s trussing him up.>

Brawl strode away with Vortex trailing him as Onslaught returned his attention to the problem at hand. Still furious, Sunstreaker refused to accept such weak-aft attempts to deescalate the situation. “He fragging _touched_ me.”

“A little slap on the aft never killed anyone,” Onslaught retorted, though he should have known better. Sunstreaker swung at him in reply, and the two broke out into another fight. The sounds of furious scrapping echoed down the slats, until Onslaught kicked him away.

“ _Enough_ ,” Onslaught wiped at the internal fluid dripping down his chin. “You’ve made your point.”

“No one touches me,” Sunstreaker snarled back. “I know what he was trying to do. I told him to back off and he didn’t listen.”

Onslaught scowled after the sheepish, limping Vortex. “I understand. It won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t,” Sunstreaker snapped over his shoulder as he strode away.

Arms crossed over his chest, Onslaught let him go without another word. Remembering Thundercracker’s orders, Onslaught thrust his fingers between the slats and gestured an apology for the disruption so as to obey the letter of the law — even if the Autobots couldn’t understand him. Then he started after his tactless subordinates while growling rebuke into his comms.

 

***

 

Down below, Optimus already regretted focusing on their voices.

Trying to understand glyphs always provoked the itching sensation in his mind. Focusing on the itching only led to darker places, past a doorway that would slam shut behind him if he dared enter, leaving him adrift in endless dreams.

Next to him, Sideswipe was staring after his twin. He only relaxed after Sunstreaker disappeared from sight. He could tell from the outrage in his brother’s voice what the problem had been. Sunny seemed tightly wound and now ‘Sides really regretted his own boldness with his brother those few cycles ago.

Sideswipe was keenly nervous that he might expect the exact same treatment as Vortex, and he knew it didn’t matter in the slightest that time had passed. Or that he couldn’t take the hits. Vindictive as he was beautiful, Sunny would hold a grudge, and act on it as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Common sense suggested he defuse the situation by outing himself, but Sunstreaker hadn’t recognized him before, and his brother hated charades. Would Sunny even allow him the stupid amounts of time he might need to try and explain?

_Doubtful._

_Will need to keep away from him if only for safety’s sake_ … and then Sideswipe realized that his Prime was staring at him.

Realizing they were still worried for him, Sideswipe explained the easiest concept of his complicated situation as best he could with the limited means at his disposal. _I don’t want him to see me like this,_ he motioned, pointing first after his twin, then to his own optics, and then making a slashing motion. He hesitated and gestured to his bare frame.

Optimus nodded at him, not fully understanding, but prepared to be supportive. It was all he could do for his mechs, at least lately. Staying low and silent, he pressed a comforting servo across Sideswipe's shoulder and gave him a little squeeze. _Easy now. It's going to be okay._

Sideswipe flashed him a strained grin, pretending the previous moment’s tension hadn’t even happened. _No problems here._

Then a fist thrust through the trash-drifts, stern and powerful, and began gesturing at them. A moment later it withdrew, and the clunking of heavy pede-falls slowly faded away.

 _Everyone keep quiet,_ Optimus motioned.

Then they all crept off in a different direction, as for the first time Optimus didn’t immediately send everyone back to the sunken ship. Their confidence was slowly building for the consistent lack of pursuit and so they went back to their scavenging instead.

 

* * *

 

It was early the next morning and Optimus was the first to wake. With the cooling gel liberally applied to everyone, the last few days had been fortuitous and full of relaxing play. As a consequence, he and the others were now filthy-sticky.

Bold enough now to head out alone, Optimus wandered towards one of the corners and looked upwards, considering the piping above. The trash cover was spotty here, but the upper levels had been so quiet lately that he considered creeping up to try and bust a pipe for a shower. He was beyond filthy and getting sick and tired of it.

Barely out for more than a breem, and wasn’t Optimus (not) surprised when a mech appeared above him. These footsteps were light, probably another flight frame. The mech stopped for a moment, and he sank down without a sound. Waiting until the mech moved off, he was soon back to eyeing the pipes above him, considering the risks.

Right now all he wanted was a shower or a bath … and preferably a nice cold one. The newspark he carried within was a hot weight and he felt like he was broiling at all times, even with the cooling gel spread over his belly. The star was merciless above and it was always miserable. Midday was the worst and the broiling heat lasted far too long.

Finally, Optimus crept out. Seeing the coast was clear, he decided to go ahead with his plan. He folded a flat piece of metal into the shape of a shallow bowl, wincing for the noise. Still no one bothered him. He kept at it, and was soon pleased with his results; a decent little tub.

Then he transformed, not liking the squeeze to his abdominals when he tried to wiggle through. He was dismayed to discover his gestation tank simply couldn’t fit through the normal grating anymore.

The slats Devastator had bent _might_ still accommodate him, but they were on the opposite side. They were far too distant to travel to alone. Especially not alone. Disappointed, he fell back and then inspiration struck, and he grabbed a piece of sharp pipe. Pointing it up like a spear, he stabbed the weapon into the piping until enough fluid sprayed down for a shower.

Hiding in the shade, his makeshift tub started to fill even as he rinsed himself with the splattering fluid. Grunge streamed in little rivers as it fled his frame. It felt _so_ good to feel clean again, and he scrubbed at himself with gusto.

Rubbing at his metal made him itchy, and he reached into his subspace and pulled out Jazz’s dispenser. He'd confiscated it way back when, and it was still full of disinfectant. Several spots still stung when he rubbed over them. He knew (from Ratchet’s gargantuan hissy fits) he had persistent rust infections for the prison’s unsanitary conditions.

Above him, the clean fluid continued to sprinkle down from the pipes above, a gentle rain across his face and body. Sinking down with a sigh of contentment, he laid back into the makeshift tub and folded his legs back. After some persistent wriggling, he finally managed to work his entire frame underneath the fluid.

The little disinfectant dispenser bobbed merrily in the frothing fluid, and the stink and sting lessened. He was already feeling so much better. _I should get Sideswipe and the others. We could all use a medicated bath._ _Ratchet will be pleased._

Then noise from above caught his attention and Optimus realized there were mechs looking down at him. He grew annoyed and huffed at them, his gaze harsh and commanding. _Go away. Leave me in peace._

Optimus couldn’t recognize them for his blurry vision and they didn’t seem aggressive. In fact, one of them even started calling down to him, and the tones were friendly. It was a deep voice he almost recognized, except for the sing-song quality of it. There had been a lot of that lately, from the ratter-tatter mech and even Megatron at times.

Once again, the mechs above him seemed to mean him no harm, and yet never once in his functioning could he have ever imagined being… _serenaded…_ like this.

 _They must be going mad for the horrors above,_ and he felt a deep surge of pity and concern for them. But he was **not** leaving this bath.

The Prime shook his helm with a dignified rumble and ignored the poor, crazed delinquents. He knew their pitiable behavior wasn’t really their fault. All the silly noises from above were well beneath his notice, and he did them the solid of not providing an audience.

Instead, he merely reached out for the dispenser and squeezed out more disinfectant. But Optimus couldn’t help but relax a bit further, especially when the noisy sing-song tones grew ever more disarming.

***

Brawl peered down between the grating slats, getting an excellent view of The Prime beneath them. “Wow. You can see… _everything_.”

“Hey,” Thundercracker snapped in warning. He’d been ousted from his berth by Skywarp‘s report that Prime had left on his own. After locating the Autobot leader, he was now standing guard as Prime bathed beneath them. Prime was only barely visible, though what they could see counted for quite the eye-full. It was one thing to sneak a peek, but quite another to be all lewd about it and now he was offended for the other mech. “He’s carrying and it’s too damned hot. Don’t look if you can’t be respectful.”

Brawl snorted. “I didn’t mean it like _that_. He’s got nice equipment, that’s all.”

The Prime huffed up at them. Legs folded back at the knee joints, Prime's round belly floated in the fluid, and a small flash of yellow bobbed around his pedes… and he seemed understandably irritated for the audience.

“Throttle down, Prime,” Thundercracker called down to the huffing mech. “No one is going to hurt you.”

Striding up, Nova Storm turned to say something to Thundercracker, and then caught sight of what everyone was looking at. “Prime? – _holy frag!_ – You can see everything!”

Thundercracker face-palmed. “He is carrying—”

“Hey,” Brawl said in excitement, “I’ve seen one of _those_ before!”

Nova Storm blinked at Brawl. “Wait, how old _are_ you?”

Thundercracker rolled his optics at Nova Storm. “You mean the yellow floating thing?”

“Yeah.” Brawl gave a sudden, wicked glance upward as a thought struck. And then the massive murder machine began to recite the accompanying musical number that went along with the floating little yellow avian.

“Huh. You’re right. I remember those too,” Thundercracker said after a moment. “I wonder where he found one our size?” He also recognized the tune from his time on Earth. Fond memories evoked, he started to hum along with Brawl, who was drawling for an _entirely_ different reason.

_Squeak! squeak!_

Wings snapping to attention, Nova Storm gasped in sheerest amazement. “Did you _hear_ –”

“Yeah, they do that,” Thundercracker confirmed. He went back to humming, feeling like he shouldn’t for his station, but Prime’s huffing _had_ calmed. There was only splashing from down below as Prime likely found the noise reassuring. That was the point, right? He was just setting them up for capture, anyway.

Finally Thundercracker gave up and joined in with Brawl’s cheerful noise. The tune was just too damned infectious to ignore. _Primus,_ he missed that blue planet sometimes.

“I _need_ one of those!” Nova Storm said, delighted. “Seriously! Do you think he'll tell me where to get one?” Then after a few moments, he too remembered the song from Earth’s broadcasts and joined in.

***

 

Onslaught stared through the grating from where he stood in the Combaticon’s cell-room. He was currently teammate-sitting his Jeep, who was whining about wanting to get up and stretch his pedes, in direct violation of his bed rest orders. “Swindle?”

“Yup?”

Onslaught frowned for the weakness still so evident in Swindle’s voice. “If you can, come over here.”

Swindle’s plating fluffed up, pleased to be off his berth so early. He tottered over, curious for the odd tone in his squad leader’s voice while doing his _damndest_ to look nonchalant. All fine and dandy over here! Definitely not intensely sore in all his pretty places, no sir!

Onslaught wasn’t fooled. He watched Swindle with suspicious optics and then mentally canceled the tiny walk he was just about to suggest, but since Swindle was up already…

“Listen,” Onslaught stabbed a suspicious finger downwards. “Is that…?”

Swindle listened for a moment and then nodded. “Brawl.”

Onslaught’s lip plating thinned to a tight, tight line. Dammit. “Is… he with the others?”

Swindle peered down through the slats and then nodded with a serious expression. “Yep. Sure is. Thundercracker too. Oh, and Nova Storm’s the one hitting the high notes, pretty sure.”

Onslaught growled. There went _that_ option. Charging down there to break up the silly would only cause a further scene … often referred to as the Streisand Effect. Plausible deniability probability: great big piles of negatory.

_Damn Brawl!_

“Oh hey!” Swindle grabbed at the nearest bar to steady himself. “Prime’s down there.” Then the tune itself registered. “Wait … I _know_ that song!” Painfully amused, Swindle cheered right up and then started to hum along.

Onslaught didn’t move. The silly was just too surreal for processing. Instead, he stared at his wobbly Jeep and then shook his helm. He found himself suffering intense flashbacks to the woozy joors spent waking up from the Quint gas.

_Damn Brawl!_

_We should have never gone to that horrible blue planet. The human’s particular brand of madness is catching! Like a virus!_

There was a clatter of heavy pedes and Megatron burst out of his cell-room. He was amidst a move into Overlord’s old quarters as they were more spacious (after sending everyone into a panic when he'd yelped — actually _yelped_ — at the sight of the harness and it’s boggle-eyed and very dead occupant) but he’d overheard something far more important.

“You can see Prime? Where is he?”

“Down below,” Onslaught muttered while frantically motioning for Swindle to _shut the hell up._ But Megatron didn’t seem to notice the caterwauling. He was too busy headed towards the lower level at full throttle while trying not to look like he was running full throttle.

“Oh yeah. Got me with that one,” Onslaught mumbled under his breath. Mechs were going insane all around him. He had to suppress a violent urge to yell something like _you aren’t fooling anybody!_

Ignoring the shooshing servos, Swindle completely disregarded Onslaught’s threats as he was reasonably certain he was safe from most forms of corporal punishment. At least until he was further along the road to full functioning.

What was _important_ was he’d had an idea. “What a fantastic notion! I know a guy that could whip up a bunch of these on the cheap. I’ll make a killing!*”

Finished with the whole situation, Onslaught just surrendered to the madness and strode away with a groan of sheer disgust. “Back to berth, Swindle!” he called over his shoulder as he fled for saner spaces, ignoring the instant whines that followed after him.

 

***

Drifting in a cloud of relaxation, Optimus hardly noticed when the noise above stopped. He almost drifted off to sleep, but the sound of approaching pede steps brought him back to consciousness in a hurry.

The sound of the pede falls betrayed to Optimus that it was Megatron walking above him. His particular gait – so slow and thoughtful – was most distinctive. Concerned, he looked upwards and then a dark hand thrust down through the trash drifts, just above him. The hand hovered for a moment.

Optimus froze, staring, and still his optics wouldn't focus properly. He could only see the hand hovering over him, the strong fingers much larger than his own.

The scent was back. Wafting down, tickling his nasal sensors. Always enticing, always warming his array. Today though, he was not so desperate, and stayed wary.

Megatron reached for him and Optimus ducked away at the last second and half-rolled in the tub. Squirming away from the servos following after him, fluid splashed everywhere for his thrashing. But he couldn't struggle to his feet fast enough for the slickness of the fluid, too off-balanced for any sort of speed.

The dark hand followed after him, and then Megatron captured him, fingers stroking down his front. They pressed him back into his bath, and then felt along his metal, over his belly and along his neck. They touched his face. He opened his mouth to click his irritation at Megatron, and then swallowed around them when they pressed inside.

Startled for the boldness, Optimus nipped at the fingers that pressed against his glossa. Megatron was checking his temperature, he was certain, but he was _not_ amused for the invasion.

“For spark’s sake, Prime. I am not hurting you,” Megatron called down to him. He didn't understand the words, but the exasperated tone was clear enough.

Optimus rumbled back his wordless reply. _Leave me alone! Don't trust you! Don't want any trouble!_

There was a further explosion of fluid as he fought back and tried to get himself upright. Megatron must have realized what he was trying to do as both dark hands plunged through the grating and cupped around him, hefting him up so he could get his legs under himself and maneuver.

Amusement was thrumming through Megatron's fields, and it further annoyed him. He was not helpless! Moreover, he didn't want his old adversary to perceive him this way. Pushing away the hands, he huffed his irritation up at the other. Then he moved away, relieved when Megatron didn't otherwise grab at him.

…at least until Megatron realized he was trying to leave. Then the dark hands lashed out and grabbed ahold of him and hauled him back. Pulled him up against the grating, squeezing him as close as possible.

Optimus huffed up at Megatron again. _I said no._ Although part of him enjoyed the closeness, the rest of him was less enthused. Megatron matched his irritation and rumbled right back. _Too bad, this is what you have to work with. You need me as badly as I want you._

A sharp voice called down, and Optimus recognized Thundercracker's strong tones, sounding upset. "We can't get him through the grating yet! Don't upset him, the plan's working! You will undo everything if you aren't careful!"

Megatron snorted. "I'm not hurting him. I have no intention of harming him. He needs me to survive."

"But does _he_ know that?"

Megatron's grip on him loosened for the distraction, and Optimus tore himself free. Surging forward, he dove for the deeper sections of the trash drifts.

"Prime, wait!" Megatron's worried tone registered, and blue optics reappeared at the edge of the slag cover. They glowed faint in the darkness.

Megatron showed Optimus his open servos – no hostility intended – and tried to look as nonthreatening as possible.  He moved in closer and reached for Optimus through the bars. But Optimus pulled away from him. He didn’t want trouble and he winced, not sure what to do. He just didn't trust this situation enough to let the other touch him anymore.

“I am trying to help you,” Megatron repeated, but Optimus didn't move. _Ah well,_ Megatron thought. They would be talking it over sooner rather than later, when Scavenger was finished with the cutter.

With a sigh and one last long look, Megatron withdrew, only stopping to leave another satchel. Then he moved off.

Optimus hesitated, watching him leave. Then he gathered the gifts and then vanished from view, heading back towards the hollow.

 

* * *

 

The next morning saw Jazz and Prowl’s situation finally boil over.

Soft rustling jolted Jazz from a fitful recharge. Red optics glancing about in the darkness alerted Jazz that Skywarp was already awake. Jazz stared at the reclining Decepticon, not surprised to see Wheeljack and Perceptor nestled in around him. Drowsing one on each side, their helms were pillowed on his shoulders and his arms were wrapped around them. They had been taking full advantage of his presence, their bodies framed by sleek wings and a satiated smile.

It reminded Jazz of his own aching lower frame, and he swallowed around that faint twinge of panic. They’d tried to coax him down yesterday evening. Optimus had pulled him towards the communal berth, tarp spread out to catch any mess, that deep voice murmuring reassurances in Jazz’s audials. Ratchet had showed Jazz the key-logger and his medic’s fingers, optics promising only care and gentleness, _not going to hurt you, let me help you…_

He’d panicked. He’d fought and they’d let him up, and he’d refused their apologies. _Know you’re trying to help,_ he’d waved at them. _Just need some time…_

Groaning to himself, Jazz rubbed at his face plates and scratched at his helm. The last cycles had been far hotter than normal and every sunrise recharge had been forced upon them. He felt a little more confident every time he on-lined to see everyone still alive. Dispatching them wouldn't have been difficult for their guest, but it seemed Skywarp, like the other Decepticons, genuinely held no hostility towards them.

Now if only he could get Prowl to let him in…

Perching at Prowl's end of the communal berth, Jazz hovered over the other black and white. Watching him start to awake, Jazz dared to reach out and lay his hand on Prowl’s shoulder in greeting.

Prowl jolted and kicked him back in reply. The strike hit true. It was too mild for injury, but the harsh _ping_ of metal on metal echoed around the room like a gunshot. Jazz and Prowl stared at each other. Then Prowl’s wings twitched and his jaw set and he shook his helm.

_Not a mistake. Not sorry. Now stay away._

Something within Jazz finally cracked, reflecting on his crestfallen face. He vanished up the hollow an instant later as Prowl rolled back over. Even as his door-wings drooped, Prowl’s expression remained firm and unrelenting.

There was an explosion of bedding as an off-balanced Optimus Prime scrambled to his pedes and waddle-bolted after Jazz. Half-way there the tether grew taut and Sideswipe was yanked to wakefulness and pulled across the floor to the tune of Skywarp’s amused snort.

Sideswipe flicked a cheerfully obscene gesture at Skywarp from his new position sprawled over the floor, and an obscene gesture match broke out. Outgunned on account that Skywarp had wings (thereby opening up greater possibilities for insult) Sideswipe still made an excellent accounting of himself.

Pouncing on Jazz, Optimus pulled him back from the hollow entrance before he could vanish out into the gloomy dreck. Jazz made a harsh, hurtful gesture towards Prowl, but Optimus quieted the accusing fingers. Squeezing them with gentleness, a short lecture ensued nonetheless.

_Prowl has made his feelings clear. You must respect them. You must maintain your distance as appropriate._

Optimus’ firm gestures were wholly undermined by his kind hands and concerned expression... even as he finally dropped the hammer. But he was unwilling to leave the issue for the two to sort out anymore.

As much as it hurt, Jazz dropped his helm and could only agree. This little talk was long in coming. Especially since the writing on the wall had become a blinking neon sign that blared ‘ _no touchie!_ ’ every time he reached for Prowl. It was time to let go and he knew that. It was just… he felt like he had nothing left to cling to once he loosened his grip.

Fortunately for him, the life preserver was already mid-toss.

Optimus could feel his despondence. It thrummed through him like an open wound. Tucking him close, Optimus coaxed him back towards the sunken ship proper.

Jazz balked. He didn’t want to mingle with the others yet. Feeling too raw, he compromised by staying nestled out of sight, scrunched between the hollow and the concerned diesel truck who insisted on staying with him. 

Even now Jazz could feel that deep ocean-calm all around him. Maybe it was hypocritical of Optimus to demand that personal space be respected when Optimus himself so often ignored those boundaries. At least as of late. Introspection was difficult now, and the carrier coding further muddled things into a blurry mess. Still, it felt good to be loved on and worried over. Even if those emotions weren’t coming from his preferred companion.

Leaning against his leader’s supportive back, Jazz closed his eyes.

Sucking in a deep breath, he tried to force himself to stop shaking, to regain control. But for the first time, it didn’t work. He couldn’t stop the trembles, couldn’t stop shaking, and after a short war with himself, he stopped trying. Instead, his optic fluid blazed trails down Optimus’ bare back.

He wept for some time.

***

 _Solar sail_ …

That was what Wheeljack was trying to tell him.

It took over an hour of charades before understanding dawned and Optimus realized the complex concept Wheeljack was trying to explain would work. It made sense as low-tech was the only option, especially since there was so little in the way of supplies. A solar sail would work, and there were enough materials from the scavenged bodies to make it feasible.

They would use his supply of crude ship fuel (originally purchased to power their stolen egg-ship) as a propellant to get the sunken ship out of orbit. Once far enough from the star, they would unfold the solar sail and limp to the nearest spaceport and hope for the best.

 _This is more than I expected._ Optimus felt a flash of pride in his engineer as he nodded at Wheeljack. _It should not be so unexpected he is making real progress. I should have more faith._

 He'd intended repairing the ship as more a distraction, something to take their minds off the misery of their reality. The first thing Perceptor and Wheeljack had done was create a few basic tools, and now they were making headway on the ship itself. There was still a thousand and one problems with their little plan. Maybe it was still impossible. But so far each problem had been hurtled, thanks to the brilliant minds among them.

 _Excellent work,_ Optimus waved and Wheeljack smiled.

Still pressed against his back, Jazz was asleep, the little puddle of optic fluid having long dried. Optimus’ body was getting sore from the awkward position, but he remained where he was. Today had been one hell of a day for the saboteur, a complete emotional gut punch, and he was too pleased that Jazz was getting some needed rest to disturb him.

Then Ratchet crept over to him. Seeing an opportunity, he brandished the key-logger while making a motion asking, _Should we_ _do it now? Could make it quick._

But Optimus waved him away. He really didn’t want to hold Jazz down, but addressing the problem while Jazz was sleeping on him — and there was _so_ much trust in that simple act — would be worse. _No. Let him rest for now. We can try again tonight._

Ratchet grumbled to himself, thwarted for providing medical attention to a needy patient and irritated for it. Normally he'd have just put Jazz under for such an uncomfortable and disturbing operation, but that was not an option here. Optimus just shrugged, patting the ground next to him. _Come sit with me_.

 _Oh, we are all such a hot mess,_ and Ratchet sighed at Optimus. He had been awake for only cycles and was still so strut-weary, his strength continuously sapped by the heat. He sank down next to Optimus, slumping.

Optimus reached out and laid his hand on Ratchet's shoulder. Catching his old friend's optic, he reached out and touched Ratchet's helm, and then the flat expanse of the medic's abdominals. _Are you okay?_

The dismissive noise Ratchet had intended died in his throat instead, and he swallowed thickly. _Yes._

Optimus didn't look convinced. Ratchet leaned closer and stared him down with equal measures accusation and affection. _And how are you holding up?_

Optimus looked away. _Yes._

 _Exactly,_ and then Ratchet grabbed the hand still resting on his shoulder and squeezed it as Optimus looked back at him. Ratchet pointed at the others with his chin and then back at Optimus. He pressed their forehelms together in a show of support... and responsibility. _Can collapse into a puddle after we get our friends to safety. Not before. They need me._

 _They need us. Into the breach, old friend, for their sakes._ Optimus nodded, feeling much the same, now comforted for the company. The trenches were less daunting with his dear friend at his back.

They stayed together and leaned on each other while Jazz slept on, Prowl gazed off into the distance, and the two scientists tinkered. It was a companionable quiet, but the scene would have felt far less cozy if the Autobots could hear the complex conversation Skywarp was enduring with Hook at that exact moment.

<Alright, now what does it say?>

<It’s requesting input,> Skywarp reported. Only breems into the recalibration and he was already deathly bored with the proceedings.

<Code in this exact command sequence. Then transmit what it says back. Oh, and by exact, I mean **exact** unless you want to end up materializing at the center of the planetoid. >

<Sure, sure.> Skywarp rolled his optics for the drama. <Hit me with it.>

Hook sounded satisfied when Skywarp’s warp core accepted the general reset code and then dropped off-line. <Next is a series of diagnostic tests. This will take some time, but they are essential if you don’t want to lose body parts to improperly calculated->

<Take your time,> Skywarp said with a grin.

Skywarp was too busy watching his hosts to pay much attention to Hook anymore. He’d left his panels open for their benefit, and now they seemed to have accepted him into their lives and routines. The curious actions of the mute Autobots around him were fascinating. His inquisitive stares were marked by flashes of bright red light as he watched the little dramas playing out around him.

Ratchet was leaning against a now dozing Optimus while staring suspiciously at Skywarp. He returned that querulous stare until one of the scientists made a noise and captured his attention.

Perceptor and Wheeljack were waving at each other. Percy had whacked 'Jack in the face while tugging on a component. Now he was apologizing and Wheeljack was waving him off and both went back and forth for a time.

Entertained by the apology-battle, Skywarp glanced back at Ratchet, catching him amidst one of his quiet moments.

Looking down at himself, Ratchet ran his fingers over his flat abdominals with a conflicted expression. It was a mix of sadness and relief, twisting his features and darkening his optics. The look always vanished as soon as anyone looked in his direction.

 

* * *

 

Skywarp’s concerned vocalizer shattered their recharge the next night.

Wheeljack wasn’t responding to Skywarp’s shaking. The rest of the Autobots joined in, but no amount of coaxing could wake him. Fallen into the hole in his mind, Wheeljack could no longer struggle to wakefulness. His lip plating twitched, opening and closing with little trembles, lost to the lucid dreams.

Finally, Ratchet intervened and reminded them of a few basic truths… _this is a medically necessary state. He needs this to help heal, needs to sleep. Let him rest. We will all watch over him._

After many worried glances among the remaining Autobots - all but Ratchet - Wheeljack was lovingly nestled into the middle of the communal berth and made as comfortable as possible.

Ratchet offered the despondent but understanding Percy a small smile. Both were of scientific background, both recognizing the dreaming state for the good it would bring Wheeljack. But Ratchet could see the writing on the wall for the scientist. Having lost his primary companion and source of comfort, he seemed set to follow after Wheeljack into the dreams.

Skywarp, too, seemed particularly upset.  But after a few curious tilts of his helm - as if consulting some surly Constructicon medic - his expression relaxed.

Optimus watched the motions, now certain that Skywarp was talking with someone. That knowledge upset him. After giving Skywarp a warning look, Optimus stood looming over a despondent Perceptor.

Optimus could tell that Perceptor was the next one who couldn’t stop fighting the hole in his processor. Sitting next to him for a long time after, Optimus interrupted him every time he reached to scratch at his helm, capturing the scratching fingers within his own. _Don't do that. Don't want to lose you too._

Hovering over Percy, Optimus functioned as some sort of disruptive, overbearing helm-scratch warden until Ratchet had had _enough_.

Chasing Optimus away with his Wrench of Doom at the ready, Ratchet had it out with his Prime.  _You are not helping!_ _This sleep state is not bad! It is healing and required! They are all going to sink into it and this is nothing to grieve over! Now cease and desist!_

Standing off to the side, plating-latches erect, Optimus rumbled his engine a few times for the rebellion, almost to the point of pouting. But he did back off, trusting Ratchet's judgment but also his proficiency with that wrench. Optimus still offered reassurance whenever he noticed the others fighting with their minds. He was quick to wander over whenever they shook their helms and closed their optics, if they needed him. But he stopped grabbing them under threat of a Ratchet-prescribed aft beating.

 _They will wake up_ _,_ Jazz tried to comfort Optimus. Standing next to Jazz - but still a good distance away - Prowl nodded agreement.

Without Prowl to focus on, Jazz was not far behind. He, too, was scratching at himself frequently. But they were doing better, Prowl and Jazz.

Jazz had shifted gears and changed his tactics. Making every friendly overture he could, he was dead set on salvaging any sort of friendship with the other black and white. He took great care to keep a more-then-respectful distance from his ex, and it seemed to be working.

 _Could go outside again,_ Jazz offered, _and take a wider look around for anything useful._

Optimus nodded.

They already had mountains of components, but venturing out to scavenge gave the rest of them something to do. Things seemed much safer outside, anyway. And so he gestured for volunteers and Jazz and Sideswipe threw in immediately. Prowl demurred, content to remain behind, already calmer for the space being given him. Ratchet also insisted on remaining behind, to watch over Wheeljack and Perceptor.

Skywarp watched them leave and surreptitiously reported their leaving to his Air Commander. <Optimus Prime and some of his mechs are heading out again.>

Megatron noted his report with interest. <Onslaught, send one of your team down to locate our confused new comrades. Do not engage them! This is a reconnaissance mission only, for now. The rest of you, join me for a meeting topside.>

Onslaught relayed the orders to Vortex, even as Swindle broke in to volunteer. <Not you, Swindle! Stay on your berth. No arguments!>

<Keep us posted on their movements,> Thundercracker ordered Skywarp. <They seem calm enough now, and Scavenger will be finished with the cutter today. The air conditioning unit died this morning. Going to have to make our move soon.>

...

Ranging out, soon Optimus and his little scavenging party of Jazz and Sideswipe were further out than ever before.

Optimus had Sideswipe's tether wrapped around his fingers, lifting and flicking it over snags. He'd tried to remove it that morning as it was useless anyway, but Sideswipe had pitched a fit. Blinking down at that, he was unsure what the tether meant to Sideswipe anymore. But he felt too drained for the stress and heat of the day to fight that particular battle.

They still had 'Jacks list of needed items; pictures of objects scratched onto a rusty panel. If he wasn't allowed to hover and fret, then Optimus intended to have everything ready when he recovered.

The mood was somber, and even Sideswipe was a little more subdued, staying closer to Optimus than normal. He actually behaved himself for a while. At least until they had been out and about for long enough to relax. Then he tried to nudge Optimus over, attempting to take advantage of his off-balanced frame. Falling wasn't dangerous. The ground was only a thigh-length away, soft and spongy. But front-heavy for his full gestation tank, Optimus found it difficult to get to his pedes from some positions.

For Sideswipe, watching him navigate from a prone to an upright position was _hilarious_.

For Optimus, less so.

Lifting the rambunctious Sideswipe up by his scruff, Optimus straightened and leaned back to look more imposing. Leaning back that far was a mistake. Suddenly unbalanced, he chirped in surprise and fell back onto his aft. Now perched on top of his leader, Sideswipe grinned down from his position atop Mt. Optimus.

_Oh, now that does it._

Optimus retaliated, and soon they were wrestling again. Finally, a firm swat across a bare aft convinced Sideswipe that Mt Optimus was weary of being ascended. Worn out for the play, he gestured how tired he was at Sideswipe, as an excuse to get him to calm the hell down. It backfired spectacularly. Instead of settling down, Sideswipe made a game of being helpful and started diving for everything that Optimus tried to pick up before the truck-former could reach it.

_For the love of…_

Glancing over his shoulder during a lull in the play-fighting, Optimus still took care to remain alert. He kept them all away from the clearer sections of the grating for safety’s sake.

Caution seemed less warranted now, though. Sideswipe hardly bothered to avoid the attention of the Cybertronians that appeared above the grating. Unless there was a flash of gold. Then he would freeze, his optics searching the spaces above with nervousness mixed with longing. More often than not, it was just a piece of refuse glinting in the light above.

But not always.

More voices. Sunstreaker was up there. And he was with someone? Sideswipe blinked for the familiar voice, Vortex again. _Seriously?_ Mech seemed to have a death wish.

Not far away, Optimus waved at him to stay down. He pointed at Sideswipe and then upwards, confirming he could see Sunstreaker above them.

Sideswipe nodded - _yeah I hear him_ -  as Sunstreaker snarled something at the mech following him. “I don’t want your apologies. Just drop it, before I drop _you_.”

"Whatever. I fragged up, sure." Vortex waved his servos dismissively as yesterday was ancient history, win some, lose some, ect.  "But that's not why I'm here. Anyway, Air Commander has standing orders. He doesn't want you down here - his orders, not mine! - now look, if I have to call for backup, there's going to be a scene. Nobody wants that. Just, stay out of the lower levels, alright?"

Meanwhile, Optimus had stalked through the trash piles like a lion and sank over Sideswipe.

Body broken, stripped, and damaged, Optimus could feel shame and fear reflecting within Sideswipe’s electromagnetic fields. The feel of him wasn't good. Something possessive rose up from his spark. Optimus squeezed the smaller mech close, and then pulled on him, coaxing him to follow.

Optimus kept Sideswipe close and motioned to Jazz. The furtive Autobots slipped back to a different part of the under dark, a quieter spot.

After that, Sideswipe settled down and stayed close to Optimus, at times peeking back over his shoulder. Nervous, he still watched for the golden flashes, peering up them like a starving mech might watch a fuel canister just out of reach.

 

* * *

 

In the Courtyard, Megatron and Long Haul looked over the remains of the air conditioning unit. It had just recently expired and the Junkion tech was busy disassembling it. His fingers were an impressive blur as he worked.

“After the adjustments,” Long Haul said, “and with some of the components from the troop carrier and some of the bodies, I think we can get it back up and running.”

"How long?"

Scavenger's voice broke in over their HUD. <Have to adjust several of the parts. Even make some from scratch, touchy work, lots of little parts. Gonna take a week, at least.>

Thundercracker gestured at the broken air conditioner. "We are making our move tonight. The Autobots are calm enough to let us surround them now. Once we get the Autobots up with us, we can focus on keeping them cool enough to make it until the air conditioning unit is functional again."

Megatron gave a curt nod, satisfied. Excitement raced along his lines from his pounding spark. For better or worse, tonight he was bringing Optimus home to their shared quarters. “That still leaves the problem of escape,” he said, changing the subject on the fly as he wasn't one to waste a meeting.

“We’ve made some progress on that as well,” Long Haul said.

Long Haul glanced over at Mixmaster who was sitting just inside the Bailiwick entrance. He was pulling out his fishing rod. Behind him, the Dynobots were still resting. They perked up the instant they realized what he was assembling.

Sludge stared with wide eyes when Mixmaster pulled out his bait; the tasty-looking metal donut. Complete with metal-shavings sprinkles and super-special secret ingredient. He attached it to the end of the line with a flourish.

“Sludge _like_ donuts,” Sludge hinted.

Mixmaster ignored his audience. The tip of his glossa appeared at the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on tying the complex knot with thick fingers. “Prowl does too,” Mixmaster agreed absentmindedly as he tested his knot.

Long Haul saw the Dynobots thump their tails in excitement for the _khiss ffft_ when Mixmaster tested the rest of his equipment. The Dynobots recognized that distinctive sound, such a potent reminder of home.

Long Haul mentally shrugged and then returned his attention to the task at hand. “The teleportation device you found isn’t functional, but now we think it can repair it.”

"We could use it to teleport an assault party on board the _Retribution_ when she arrives with the next set of prisoners." Megatron realized the possibilities with a sudden, wicked grin.

“Just one thing,” Hook said. “We can't just cobble one of the components together on a whim, not with what we have at hand.” He sounded hesitant, which was unusual for him.

“I assume you have some sort of plan for that?” Megatron asked.

“You might not like it, sir.” Onslaught certainly didn’t.

“We need to remove the space bridge technology that Shockwave built into your frame,” Long Haul gave him the bad news with a barely concealed flinch.

 _More surgery,_ Megatron realized. _Ugh._

“How soon?” Megatron muttered.

Long Haul shrugged. “How soon do you want us to get started?” Now he sounded hopeful and the others brightened. It seemed like Megatron was actually considering it. This would be their first real chance to get off this rock.

“Immediately,” Megatron snapped. He pinched his nasal ridge for the sudden helm-ache that appeared behind his optics. Instant stress response. Surgery without pain management _wasn’t nice_. The others were well within bounds to be worried he might refuse, but it seemed it had to be done.

“Won’t need too much cutting,” Scavenger offered, and yes, that was something. They all stood silent for a moment, considering the possibilities as a donut on a wire went sailing past Long Haul's helm with a _khiss ffft_ sound.

Hook bristled, but Long Haul threatened him by clenching his fist, and he swallowed the cruel things poised at the tip of his glossa. Mixmaster loved to fish, and he was pretty damned good at it. Long Haul wasn’t interested in Hook’s opinion on the subject.

Mixmaster’s expert cast and back and forth motion whipped the donut around the Courtyard. It dropped through the slats with a _tink_ to fall to the depths below. His exquisite casting technique was a delight to behold (during a vacation on the planet Azeroth, Pat Nagle asked _him_ for an autograph) and Mix remained wholly unapologetic for the commotion.

Sludge, Slag, and Snarl watched from their comfortable nest, while Pipes was sitting across Snarl’s back plates. Consummate fisher-bots, the Dynobots were most impressed with his skills, while Sludge whipped his long, long neck around to lunge after the delightful-looking treat, always missing.

Pipes cheered Sludge on, and then cocked his helm as Snarl looked uncomfortable, his tail swishing back and forth. “So… can I ask something?”

Amused by Sludge’s antics, Pipes was only half listening. “Sure, anything.” 

“You like big boats?”

Pipes blinked. Okay. Attention achieved bigtime. “Do I like what?”

“Slag says Hubcap says that you like…big boats and you cannot lie…? I don’t know what that means, but he was asking why you are slumming around with me when you got standards and all and–”

Pipes’ intakes fell open in shock. Then he shook his head, “I don’t care about boats. I like _you_.”

Snarl harrumphed, vindicated. Now torqued, he whirled around and stomped back towards his brother. “You were fragging with me! I knew it!”

Slag puffed up, insulted and disappointed his attempts at separating the two had failed so utterly. “He too small for you.”

Snarl sniffed, a sudden, knowing smirk tugging at his muzzle. “He _is_ very small.” He’d just figured out his brother’s issue with his new little buddy. Come to think of it, Slag had been looking that bitter shade of jealousy green lately.

Snarl could live with that. “And tight. Mouth small too. _Very_ tight. Lots of sucking.”

Pipes blinked and then blushed down to his protoform as a pair of blue-gray door wings sprang up from the garbage-drift with a… _sprong!_...and Bluestreak rose up like a Valkyrie from the dead, complete with oral lubricant drool and pointed at the snarling Dynobots with huge optics and a…… _did you hear that?!……_ look on his stunned face.

Oh yeah. He’d heard that. Then his blushing intensified as the quarreling Dynobots got louder and louder.

“So shut up about things you know nothing about!” Snarl stomped a pede while nastily mimicking his brother’s stilted speech pattern. “Tight spaces! Slag not have any! Tight spaces!”

“ _You_ shut up,” Slag snarled back, and both Dynobots stood muzzle to muzzle, belching fire into each other’s faces while Bluestreak dodged the heat and rolled onto the other side of Sludge.

Sludge stared at his arguing brothers and then sighed. “Me Sludge, no like.” Then the giant Dynobot rolled over onto his side, smooshing his quarreling brothers down into the trash. Sighing happily for the sudden quiet, he didn't move even as smothered smoke and muffled howls drifted out from under his sides.

Pipes hugged him, though Sludge didn’t notice. He was too busy thrusting his long neck after Mixmaster’s whipping metal donut-lure.

“This is ridiculous!” Hook’s furious roar echoed across the Courtyard. “You are a pathetic waste of metal and I am ashamed to be seen with you!”

“Maybe the carrying mechs are in a mood for a snack,” Mixmaster mumbled to himself with a long-suffering sigh. He was well aware this probably wasn't going to work, but who cares? Fishing was fun, and it wasn't like he had anything else to do. Staring at walls was boring. Thus he just shrugged as Hook finally exploded into the nastier sort of insults, even as Long Haul’s fist reminded him of the line.

***

 

 _Plup_ _-plop!_

Jazz blinked and rubbed at his optics, worried for a moment he was hallucinating. Was that a donut?

It was.

It _was_ a donut, for the love of…

Jazz stared at the tasty-looking metal donut dangling down from above, his incredulous grin stretching for miles. Now who in their right mind would trigger such an obvious trap like that? And not only that, but Jazz could even _see_ the wire leading upward, no doubt connected to someone above. Hands on his hips, he snortled in amused disdain.

_Seriously?_

But Jazz’s optics grew wistful-sad as better times spent with a black and white flashed behind his optics. Bittersweet memory-files were triggered by the dubious offering of cake, now twitching enticingly.

_Prowl loves donuts._

With a melancholy sigh, Jazz reached out a servo to tug on said donut. He had no intention of eating it or anything like that ... he was just intending to have a little fun with whoever was on the other end of the line.

_Tug... tug..._

And then Optimus looked up amidst a tug of war match with Sideswipe over who would be carrying a heavy piece of salvage to see Jazz reaching for a pretty, sprinkled confectionery dangling from a string…

 

***

 

Mixmaster twitched the line enticingly for a few moments. No bites. With a patient sigh, he started reeling the line back in with a _whir whir whir._ Then he cast again, dropping the donut in yet another spot.

A serious mech with serious problems, Megatron was fully immune to ridiculousness at this point. He didn’t seem to notice the silliness, not even when the next cast sent the donut hurtling only a micron over his helm. He didn’t even _blink_.

Donuts on fishing line you say? Flying through the air? No, definitely didn’t see anything like that.

…that would be silly.

_………………khiss ffft! Tink!_

Megatron cocked his helm. "According to Skywarp, some of the Autobots are already outside of their hollow. If you all have nothing further to add, let us adjourn this meeting and begin the rescue operation."

Long Haul glanced at Hook. "Scavenger isn't finished with the cutter yet."

“I was assured the cutter would be complete by today,” and Megatron's mood plummeted in an instant, the tip of his sharp denta appearing. “Time is ticking and I grow … impatient.”

Hook rubbed at the sore spot on his cheek. “The cutter is almost finished, tonight for certain.”

“Did you tell them about my drum?” Mixmaster yelled and Long Haul suppressed the urge to duck as the donut went flying by. If Megatron wasn't reacting to the threat of imminent pastry, then damned if _he_ would.

_…..whir whir whir!_

“There’s another option for keeping the Autobots alive. Mixmaster’s drum is climate controlled and equipped for mass displacement for large volumes of raw materials. We could clean it out and hold them there.”

“We will not be able to fit them all in,” Long Haul clarified while glancing in Mix’s direction. “But if we leave Optimus Prime and maybe one other outside, then we should be able to get the smaller mechs inside.”

Megatron seemed to ponder that, while around him, everyone else's reactions were mixed.

Thundercracker’s optics gleamed. “You know he uses that drum to kill mechs?”

Long Haul seemed unconcerned. “He assures me that once he’s cleaned it, the Autobots will be safe inside. He has full control over the conditions inside his drum.”

_………………khiss ffft! Tink!_

Onslaught tapped his chin thoughtfully. “We will need to plan this out carefully, without anyone getting _too_ dead.”

“I will take care of Prime myself,” Megatron said, to the surprise of no one. The next cast flew over his shoulder — only microns from his metal — and only the barest twitch from an optic tracked its passing.

"I will keep the smaller mech with me," Ion Storm called from the sidelines. "He might need a short adjustment period, but he already trusts me enough to be allowed to wander around."

"Help Scavenger with the cutter," Megatron ordered while striding away. "That is your highest priority today."

Long Haul nodded. “It will be done.”

Helms whipped around as Mixmaster’s scream of purest joy shattered the quiet and echoed across the Commons.

 “I can’t believe it! I got one, Long Haul! I actually got one!”

 

***

 

 _I can’t believe this,_ Optimus gestured with wild, horrified optics.

The innocent-looking donut had a secret ingredient; a heavy clamp-trap. The fiendish device was now currently snapped down on Jazz's servo. Arms wrapped around Jazz, Optimus held on tightly, unwilling to release the Porsche to his unknown, maybe horrible fate. _What in the name of Primus?!_

 _Don’ know! I barely touched it!_ Now Jazz was panicking, fighting his fate with wild servos _. I can’t die like this!_

Clinging to Jazz's legs, Sideswipe called back towards the hollow with frantic summoning chirps while being dragging behind the captive Porsche like a chiwawa clinging to a sock-toy.

 _It was a_ **_donut_ ** _dangling off a_ **_string_ ** _, Jazz! What did you_ **_think_ ** _was going to happen? What were you thinking?!_

Optimus gestured frantically with his free servo while planting his pedes and hauling against the pressure. For once, his weight on his front was useful. He used it to slow their progress towards their unseen, would-be captors.

Jazz clicked and braced his legs. _Sorry! Sorry!_ …and he couldn’t believe it either. He didn’t understand Optimus’ frantic clicks, but he got the gist and he looked as dumbfounded at himself as Optimus felt.

In the distance, Ratchet and Prowl were on the way, charging towards them.

 _We are likely to be butchered and eaten by aliens,_ Optimus waved at Jazz in stern disapproval of his life choices as they were hauled up and fingers reached down to grab them.

Decepticon fingers, not aliens. At least that was something.

Jazz threw his helm back, too embarrassed for functioning — _I’ll never live this down!_ — and chirped in horror even as he kicked Optimus and Sideswipe away, his leader clicking in panicked dismay as Jazz disappeared up over the edge.

_The cake is a lie!_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Swindle’s line of bathtime squeaky toys was a raging success, even into the Beast Wars era. Even Beast War’s [ Megatron ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WMaw7oWZaCU) was most fond of his, a vintage model (yesssssss). Never leave your galaxy cluster without one.


	19. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Autobots are relocated, to their chagrin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE WARNING TAGS. My intentions are to write a good story and get better as a writer, not upset or annoy anyone. :) 
> 
> Thanks again for the comments guys, I can't tell you how happy it makes me that peeps are enjoying this story. We are coming up on the end now with silly cuddle-fluff warning going into effect next chapter.

“I caught one, Long Haul!” Mixmaster’s shout carried across the open spaces. “I actually got one!”

“What _is_ that idiot gibbering about?” Hook asked and then winced as Long Haul clenched a fist in warning. He swallowed the hurtful things rattling around his vocalizer as his face still ached for the last reminder of the importance of unit cohesion.

Satisfied that Hook was going to behave himself, Long Haul crossed the Commons and stared down Mixmaster's fishing line. “What do you _mean_ you caught something?” The uproar was catching everyone’s attention, and soon there was a small crowd peering down through the main Courtyard at the scene unfolding below.

“It’s _Prime_ ,” Acid Storm pointed an incredulous finger downward. “I don’t believe it. He hooked Prime with a fragging donut on a stick!”

“It’s pronounced ‘fishing pole,’” Scavenger called from where he was working on the cutter, running it through a series of final tests. Almost done…

“You crazy son of a glitch!” Long Haul gave Mix a congratulatory whack across his back plates. In the distance, Hook was sulking and ignored the triumphant look Mixmaster shot his direction.

Then Long Haul stepped back as Thundercracker tore past him with Megatron barely a step behind. Both were charging towards the stairway, already heading down to collect the captured Autobot. 

In the meantime, the three Rainmakers peered down through the slats and a gleeful Nova Storm hollered, “Cravings are a _glitch_ , ain’t they Prime?!” Standing next to his brothers, Ion Storm’s wings folded back in dismay for the larger picture. “This is a disaster. This is going to ruin everything.”

“I think Prime just flipped us off,” Acid Storm stared down through the slats in amazement. “I have never seen him do that!” Another cheerful wing-flick from Nova Storm. “And how many carrying mechs have you met?”

Ion Storm scowled. “No, Prime didn’t do anything obscene. And carrying mechs acting insane over fuel types is a myth. If you actually look, Prime’s wrapped around a smaller mech and it was the little one who flipped you off.”

“This is why you don’t get invited to parties, you fragging killjoy,” Acid Storm muttered with a wing-drop. _Click._

Ion Storm ignored his trine mate. He couldn’t be more disappointed with the turn the day had taken. Mortal terror was the last thing the little group of carrying mechs needed right now and all the trust they’d been building with the vulnerable group was going up in smoke. Even now, he could see panicked blue eye-shine milling below.

Thundercracker could see them too. The comm lines were crackling with his frustrated call to action, and he sounded as concerned as Ion Storm felt.

“Come on,” Ion Storm tugged on his brothers. “The Air Commander is calling for us and the Combaticons. He needs our help to corner the Autobots now that the game is up.”  Wings downcast, Ion Storm looked pensive as they headed down the stairwell. He was beyond worried for his carrying mech.

Watching them leave, Pipes took a few tentative steps after them. “Should we go down and help?” Another few steps and he pulled up short when Snarl – still trapped under Sludge – called out a negative. “Not authorized. Our guardian coding isn’t active.”

Bluestreak sniffed in disapproval, half leaning over Sludge’s smooth back with his feet not quite reaching the ground. Concerned, he watched as the dangerous Decepticons vanished down the stairwells, but he was too beaten down and outnumbered to do anything about it. He was not leaving his safe little spot within the Dynobots.

Hearing the muffled snuffling, Pipes sat back in surprise when he realized Bluestreak still had his muzzle. He was just about to say something when Blue flashed him a turbodeer-in-headlights look and dove behind Sludge. Now only Bluestreak’s door-wings were visible, tucked all timid and close.

“Come on Blue,” Pipes said, “Hook might be weird, but he can still get that thing out of you.”

“I heard that,” Hook said as he stomped past, “And consider this confirmation that you now have an appointment with me tomorrow, first thing, and don’t even _contemplate_ being late.”

“We’ll fix what ails you,” Long Haul’s visor flashed (Pipes told himself he probably didn’t mean it to sound like a death threat, but really he did) and Bluestreak groaned in horror and Hook smiled, mollified to see such respect.

Hook trailed after Long Haul as he started heading down the stairwell. The Constructicons weren’t authorized to visit the lowest levels under normal circumstances. While their guardian coding _was_ active, it seemed Thundercracker didn’t trust them to interact with the (perceived as) defenseless group below.

Fair enough. They did have a reputation to maintain, after all. But they knew Prowl was down there and now they were going to risk Thundercracker’s ire (and thus Megatron’s). All but Mixmaster, who was stuck holding the fishing line taut lest his catch escape. A tiny whine rattled around his throat as his brothers hurried past him, leaving him behind.

Then Onslaught to the rescue. “You can cut your line now, we got him!” he shouted up to Mixmaster, who dropped his fishing line a moment later and went charging after his brothers to go find Prowl.

***

 

Jazz disappeared up through the slats after kicking Optimus and Sideswipe away, not wanting to risk them being captured along with him. They cried after him, but his angry buzzing was the only response – _get the frag out of here while you still can!_ – and then he was gone, having transformed up through the slats to face his tormentors head on. They had lost him, at least for now.

 _Jazz was right. The Decepticons are up to something. These last few days were merely a trap to lure us out for capture…_ and with a sinking spark Optimus trilled out a warning for the others.

Ratchet and Sideswipe turned with him and they fled from the large patch of light they’d been standing in while clinging to Jazz. As frightened as they were for their lost comrade, getting captured now would only make things worse. There was no fighting the Decepticons, not in their condition, and now all they could do was try not to lose anyone else.

The hot night was retreating. Already the gloom was brightening; beginning to separate into patchworks of light and receding darkness.

Dawn was coming.

 _Have to get back to the hollow before we shut down for the heat_ … and that was Optimus’ second most pressing concern, right behind the Decepticons tearing down the stairwell towards the trapped Jazz. He tried to lead his Autobots through the darker sections while above them, heavy pedes rattled the grating and excited calls filled the air. The Decepticons were overwhelming Jazz now, and several were casting about, trying to locate the rest of them.

Smaller pieces of scrap rained down all across the lower levels, adding to the noisy bedlam as the heat levels began to rise dramatically. Already the yellowish light cast from the string of strobe lights above grew negligible for the natural sunlight cascading through the slats. The smell of hot metal intensified as the bitter star crested the mountain range in the distance.

Time was running out.

 _I have led us too far out_ , Optimus rebuked himself as they fled as quietly as they could. _We are far too exposed out here._ He’d relaxed his wary attentiveness and now they were almost on the opposite side of the penitentiary. Another mistake. He was making mistakes and it was always his Autobots that paid for them.

Then Ratchet froze in place and grabbed him. Optimus slid to a halt and then nearly fell over when Sideswipe crashed face-first into his aft. Ratchet waved at them frantically – _we are missing someone!_ – and Optimus realized the problem a moment later.

Prowl wasn’t following them.

Looking back, they caught sight of the troubled black and white still standing in an open patch, crowned by the brilliant rays of morning light. He was on his knees, looking upwards as if waiting for someone. His body was stiff and straight and commanding, even in his prone position. His door-wings were outstretched imperiously in the manner of a momentarily embarrassed king awaiting rescue from his loyal subjects.

The Autobots wasted precious seconds clicking and chirping for him – _What are you doing?! Come back! They can see you!_ – while gesturing in frantic attempts to catch Prowl's attention.

Prowl made no attempt to hide and the pursuing Decepticons skidded to a halt above him. Their servos thrust down through the slats, and only then did Prowl break from his trance. His door-wings flared and he stumbled back, falling flat on his back plates.

These were not his loyal subjects! Shocked, Prowl pushed back at the grasping fingers and made a show of surrendering, curling onto his side as if trying to avoid any touch. But shouts and insistent servos still intruded on him, and he clicked in dismay for the contact. He closed his optics and his lips began to move and then the Constructicons came roaring to his defense.

“Leave him to us!” Long Haul bellowed out, his words thick with threat. “Prowl’s with us! Don’t any of you fragging touch him!”

The various hands gripping Prowl immediately pulled away, and the Constructicons arrived not a klik later. The grating shook for their massive weight and shifting pedes, and their excited greetings echoed across the underdark.

For a second time that joor the Autobots had to leave one of their own behind, even if it was Prowl’s own choice to surrender. Bright green and greedy grasping servos thrust down and Prowl vanished up through the grating and into their embrace. At the same time, Ratchet’s horrified cry alerted the rest of the Decepticons to the their location; huddled under a deep and otherwise concealing trash-drift.

Ratchet clamped a horrified servo over his mouth, but it was too late. Their pursuers hurtled towards the carrying mechs, overtaking them like the front of a raging storm. All hell broke lose as the Autobots scattered every-which-way, desperate to avoid all the thrusting, grasping hands. The Decepticon's excited shouts from above added to their confusion.

 “Get around there and cut them off!” and Megatron’s voice boomed over all others.

“Thrust, with me, hurry!” Thundercracker shouted as he tore across the grating towards the hollow in the distance. “We have to block off their cave or we will have to dig them out! ‘Warp can’t teleport them all!”

“For the love of Primus you idiots, just seize them! They can barely move down there!”

Acid Storm’s ill-tempered voice carried across the slats. “Trying! It’s hard to grab them without hurting them! They don’t have any fragging plating and they are so slick!”

“Whatever, Hook!” Thrust yelled over his shoulder while following his Air Commander. “Yours is just standing there and letting you pull him up, so either come help or shut your glitch-hole!”

Optimus found the wild dash particularly alarming.

It was difficult to make out the direction of the pursuers clanging overhead, and, nearly lost to coding panic, his flight was erratic as his vision became a useless jumble of shapes and shadows. The occasional jerks on the tether assured him that Sideswipe was somewhere not far behind, also struggling to avoid their pursuers.

Then the ragged tether stretched and snapped.

Optimus heard Sideswipe yelp and whirled around for the sound, but was forced to keep fleeing as eager servos pawed over him. They slipped over his frame, trying to grasp him, but not catching on his smooth mesh.

The flickers of their electromagnetic fields startled him, filled as they were with aggression and excitement and worry. Optimus blasted right back with his own powerful fields, and he could tell he'd surprised one of them – was it Megatron? – with his own intense fear.

Slower and heaver then the others, the only reason Optimus wasn’t captured yet (beyond the concealing rubbish layer above that made things so difficult for his would-be rescuers) was the old gel still coating his body. The slickness made him hard to grasp, though the attempts remained relentless. Some part of him sensed that they were trying to be gentle. If they hadn’t cared for his welfare he’d already be caught, his unprotected and delicate components torn and bleeding. But all the chasing and grabbing was panic-inducing and he’d already surrendered to the carrier coding fear ... wherein reason held no sway.

Things were so hectic above that Optimus managed to writhe away. Twisting and turning, he plunged back under the deeper drifts, though at the cost of growing confused and lost. Turned ‘round and around, he no longer knew where he was. He was gasping for the exertion now, but thankfully the thrusting hands lessened as the trash cover grew ever thicker.

After rounding one trash drift, Optimus heard Ratchet cry out for for help. He grew frantic and began to cast around for his dear friend, but the mess and his blurry eyesight worked against him and he couldn’t pinpoint Ratchet’s location. All the echoing and shouts were not helping either. The voices all sounded vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t remember any names.

“I’ve got one here, the one with the red chevron! Frag my stupid life, of course I get the mean one.”

“Don’t lose him, crabby-wings! And watch out for the–”

“–wrench, yes. Hurts.”

“Let him keep his little weapon, if brings him comfort. He can hardly damage you. Now hold him there and stop whining. Scavenger is heading down with the cutter.”

***

 

Down below, Sideswipe was thrashing and kicking up at the arms holding him.

 “Hey, Ion! I have yours over here,” Nova Storm shouted. Ignoring his attempts to escape, Nova hummed a merry tune instead; the same from before with the Prime. He was trying to calm the terrified mech below, with questionable results.

Barely a klik later and Ion Storm was kneeling down and wrapping his arms around Sideswipe, helping Nova hold him still. He could feel his carrying mech's fear and it upset him. The last thing he wanted was to frighten Sideswipe. But at the same time, he also didn’t want anyone else holding his carrying mech.

"I have him,” Ion Storm said, “Go help the others. He will calm down if I stay with him."

Nova Storm nodded and stood up. "Sure thing."

Ion Storm watched him step back and he relaxed for it, though he knew it meant he was getting dangerously attached. Back at the shelter he used to work at, they had always discouraged it. Before the war, there had been casts of mechs, and some of them (especially the 'disposables' – recorders and data disks and the like) were systematically maltreated with little official recourse or protection.

As such, there had always been more battered carrying mechs then surrogate guardians available in the shelters. He’d been far less a bigot than many and had often served a guardian role to multiple carrying mechs at a time. Avoiding favoritism made sense, back then. But with the Predacon coding active, the inevitable possessive streak was stronger than normal. All of his brothers had active guardian coding, but he didn't want to share, even though they were just as interested as he was.

Nova Storm sort-of understood, even though he wasn’t bonded to any particular one yet. He hesitated with an eager flick of his wings and asked, "I know this one is yours, but he needs some TLC pretty bad. If I’m not assigned one, can I help you with yours tonight?"

"Alright," Ion Storm murmured to his erstwhile brother, "But nothing more than just helping clean him up. Any interfacing will be up to him for tonight. They are our comrades, not captives."

Nova Storm nodded again and then turned to help the others search for Prime – he'd given them the slip somehow, even with Megatron giving desperate chase. Now Megatron was cursing, searching the dreck and kicking through the trash in the way.

Sideswipe relaxed a little when Ion Storm insisted on comforting him. Fresh, strong cooling gel was rubbed over him, and coolant was offered, which Sideswipe took several sips of. It was so, so damned hot. The star was climbing higher into the sky and soon his processor was going to shut down for the heat out here, cooling gel or not.

Still upset, Sideswipe squirmed as Ion Storm tickled and coaxed him up through the slats. 

Taking the moment to look around, Sideswipe couldn't see Jazz anywhere. In the distance, Sideswipe could hear Ratchet’s angry buzzing and a green-winged seeker wincing repeatedly. Now wrapped up in protective arms, he writhed around until he was facing Ion Storm and began clicking and chirping in protest. The look on his face was harsh with accusation, with betrayal.  

Ion Storm winced. He was certain Sideswipe was asking him what the hell he was doing, what was going to happen to his friends. He tried to explain with his hands, _not going to hurt them._ _Not going to hurt you. We are getting you out of the dirt. Want you back into the light. We all want to help you._

Sideswipe squirmed, trying to wriggle free. Pointing at himself, at Ion Storm, and then at the underdark, he struggled to make himself understood as he stabbed a finger at the trash-drift Optimus had disappeared under. _If that is true, then prove it! Let me go!_

Ion Storm winced. _He will return if he trusts me,_ he realized, _and_ _there really isn't anywhere he can go that we can't reach eventually. Their cave is cordoned off and the cutter is finished and ready. The others might even grab him again in a few minutes._ Setting his carrying mech free might be the only way he could salvage the relationship he'd been building.

For without trust, there was nothing.

 _Not going to hurt you,_ Ion Storm insisted. _You are safe with me._ Then he gave Sideswipe a gentle kiss on his cheek and a little squeeze, and then released him.

Sideswipe stared as he realized the situation; he’d demanded proof of good intentions, and Ion Storm was giving it to him.

Now Ion Storm was gesturing at him, trying to explain something. _Will come back for you later,_ Ion Storm gestured swiftly, tapping at his throat. _I will call for you. Please come back to me._

With a sudden rush of relief, Sideswipe smiled for faith restored even as Ion Storm pressed a portion of cooling gel into his hands, just in case. Then Sideswipe dove back under the grating, heading for deeper cover and Optimus.

Ion Storm gave 'Sides a moment for a decent head start, and then made a show of yelping to the others, “He wiggled away! Grab him, someone!”

Speaking of trust…

Thundercracker caught Ion Storm’s optic and flicked his wing in approval.

 

***

 

Patches of light and darkness and shouts and thumps and rattling grates and falling trash and Optimus stumbled. Floundering under the deeper trash-drifts, he was rapidly becoming overheated. Daylight was streaming down from above and the air was burning hot. Mid-flight, Optimus fell onto to his side, momentarily overwhelmed for the heat and his HUD screen-flashed and then rebooted.

Humans would term it a faint from heat exhaustion, and thanks to the suddenness of it, his exasperated pursuers charged right past him. Losing him for his sudden vanishing act, they broke up into a search pattern, kicking at the scrap and trying to figure out which direction he’d fled.

None of them more frustrated than Megatron. His strong voice cut through the din, “The star is rising. Soon they will have no other option but to bed down or overheat. Keep looking!” – wholly unaware that Optimus was directly beneath his pedes.

Hidden by the deep scrap above, Optimus chose to stay down where he’d fallen. He caught sight of a length of tarp nearby and quietly pulled the concealing fabric over himself. Now lying under the deepest part of the trash-drifts, he remained motionless as there were still mechs tromping nearby.

Sunken down under the piece of ragged tarp, he suddenly realized why it felt so familiar, why this spot was giving him such a powerful sense of déjà vu. _This is the same place we slept the first night we arrived here_. _This is the same tarp we slept on after we lost Bumblebee._

His world seemed so much smaller now. _Where are the others? Have they all been captured? Am I the only one left?_ He didn’t dare call for them. The carrier coding was flooding terror down his lines, and he couldn’t think. Instead he remained silent…shaking and terrified and he felt ashamed for it. But for his condition he couldn’t fight, and now for the building heat he couldn’t move.

The Decepticons were all around him. The grating above rattled and rained debris and they were still searching for him, still shouting. “There are only two unaccounted for; Optimus Prime and Ion Storm’s mech.”

“Can’t believe you lost him, Ion! I should have stayed and helped you hold him–”

“Frag that! Someone come help me hold this damned medic, not a stitch of plating and he’s still kicking my aft!”

“Just pull him up through the–”

“HE’S NOT TICKLISH!”

Amidst the incomprehensible noise, there was a scrabble of movement nearby, and the faintest of faint cheeps. Even in his growing heat-daze, Optimus recognized Sideswipe’s call.

One soft, dangerous _click_ later and Sideswipe was crawling under the tarp with him. Relieved beyond words, Optimus pulled on him, curling protectively around his precious Autobot and then sagged into unconsciousness a few kliks later.

Now nestled under Optimus’ chin, Sideswipe reached up and touched his face to catch his attention, only to realize he’d fallen unconscious. Sideswipe hesitated, unsure what to do. There was no way he could convince Optimus that the mechs above might not be the monsters they seemed. Yes, something had happened to Prowl, but… Ion Storm and the other seekers still seemed legitimately friendly.

Beyond that, the others were already captured, and it was too hot. He could already feel his mind starting to wander, the forced recharge coming on as his processor became too overheated to function.

Then Sideswipe heard Ion Storm’s voice… calling, calling.

He pulled in a ragged breath, and then regretted it instantly for the surge in his internal temperature. But the warning blinking lights in his mostly incomprehensible and defunct HUD did help him make a decision.

Another gasp of too-hot air, and Sideswipe answered that distant call with a loud series of chirps, and in doing so alerted the Decepticons to his – and thus Prime’s – location. Relaxing back, he pulled out the gift of cooling gel, and managed to apply some before he, too, succumbed.

The last thing Sideswipe heard was relieved-sounding voices overhead as he followed his Prime into a forced recharge… the both of them now too hot to process.

 

***

 

Within moments of Sideswipe’s summoning chirps, the area was teeming with heavy mechs. Kicking away the concealing trash, the situation below became clear. Below them was the tarp, and beneath that lay the last two carrying mechs. The tip of Optimus’ pede was barely visible, but there they were.

“They are unconscious for the heat,” Ion Storm murmured, “Just like Skywarp said. We’d better hurry. There’s no real protection for them out here.”

Megatron peered down until he caught sight of the little bit of Optimus still visible (Sideswipe was completely hidden). Reaching down through the slats, he gave the bare pede a gentle pat, relieved the chase was finally over. “Good work. Scavenger is on his way down.”

Next to him, Thundercracker dropped to one knee and began pulling the tarp off the two carrying mechs. “This isn’t a thermal tarp. It’s going to concentrate heat like an oven instead of deflecting it away,” he explained for Megatron’s questioning look.

“What's all this?” Nautilator’s strained voice drifted down from the Courtyard above. “Why is it so stupid hot today?”

“Air conditioning is out!” Pipes yelled back. “Thanks to the stupid Quints the lift-seal's busted too, and that we can’t fix.”

Everyone topside began to grumble all sorts of nasty things as they settled down for the day. Frag the stupid Quints. If only they could be executed twice. Frag this planet. 

"Frag everything with a pointy stick!" Nautilator shouted peevishly and then Junkions burst out of the trash drifts, offering him all manors of – very pointy! – stickish tools for his convenience.

Nautilator blinked. "I wasn’t … it was a thing where you say something but you … um, okay. Thanks, guys ... I think."

And still, the temperature continued to climb. Down below and try as they might, the rescuers couldn’t convince Optimus Prime to let go of Sideswipe so they could relocate him to a cooler location. Prime wasn't conscious, but he wasn't entirely gone either, and come Mortilus or the Rust Sea, he was _not_ letting go of his Autobot.

"All your mechs are in the communal shower, cooling off and waking up. They are waiting for you," Ion Storm tried to sweet talk the heat-touched Prime, but to no avail. No amount of tugging, pulling, tickling, or cajolery could convince him that releasing Sideswipe was a good idea.

“Let them rest together,” Megatron waved the others off. All the panicky huffing from his counterpart was beginning to upset him, triggering his guardian coding. "Give them some space."

Ion Storm stepped back and then turned on his thrusters. The rest of the Rainmakers joined him, functioning as high-powered fans. The air began swirling around the trapped Autobots. It helped, but only a little.

Scavenger appeared a few moments later, and the cutting began. Sparks began to hiss and flit and fly around them for the cutter

<Skywarp,> Thundercracker commed his trine mate, <We've sealed the Autobot's hollow. Go ahead and teleport up the last of them. I am transmitting the receiving coordinates now. Make absolutely sure that there is no one left behind. They won’t survive.>

<I hear you,> Skywarp answered.

 

***

 

“Hey,” Nautilator called out, “Looks like they found the last two Autobots.”

Thanks to his unique voice – he shared a vocal range with Megatron himself – his call caught the attention of everyone in range. Mechs wandered over to gawk, even with the heat beating down on them. Several of them called down for updates on the rescue, and then began chattering amongst themselves.

“The carrier coding the Quints gave them activates our guardian coding,” Pipes told a curious Bluestreak while tapping at his brand in explanation. “Only mechs with active guardian coding are allowed near them. Isolation orders are going into effect today. So no, you can’t go see Prime, sorry.”

Bluestreak’s wings drooped for disappointment.  

Then Swindle came shuffling around the corner, limping all sore and sneaky-like. He was still on bed rest orders and Vortex was supposed to be team-mate-sitting him. But Vortex had fallen asleep on the job and now the restless Jeep was making a break for sweet, sweet freedom. The racket out here sounded too damned interesting and he was just too curious to stay down.

“Uh, Swindle?” Pipes waved at him, “Did Onslaught give you the all clear to be wandering around?” It was obvious to Pipes that Swindle was still hurting. He was limping towards them like hitching along was going out of style, and yet his patented ‘ _sell you your own shadow for shade’_ smile remained.

“Sure did,” Swindle lied with a huge smarmy smile. Then he joined Pipes and Bluestreak as they watched the hullabaloo below. He was careful to stay back and out of sight, well aware that Onslaught was somewhere down below – currently on guard duty.

“Oh hey! Looks like they cornered Prime and what’s-his-name,” Swindle perked up while Bluestreak and Pipes side-eyed each other over the faint tremble in his limbs. He may be on the road to recovery, but it was less like driving and more like broken down on the highway with a scribbled sign that reads ‘will sell (your) batcher for help.’

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay to–”

“–Sideswipe!” Swindle chattered right over the top of Pipes’ nervous inquiries and Bluestreak’s concerned door-wings. “I never forget a customer. At least not the ones that buy expensive mods. Damn. Those poor bastards look pretty miserable down there.”

Nautilator wasn’t the brightest mech on the planetoid and tended to miss the obvious unless it was pointed out to him – preferably with pictures – and generally sinking in after the seventh or eighth time someone explained it to him. Standing with them and clacking his pincers in confusion, he just couldn’t quite understand the problem. “Why is everyone freaking? It’s not like starlight is going to melt them. Plating is plenty thick enough to withstand _–_ ”

“Not if all you've got is your protoform!” Swindle laughed back.

Then he saw Onslaught standing guard below and crept out of sight with another grin. He'd been on his back plates for cycles and he was sick of it. Boredom alleviated for his little game of keep-away, he tiptoed down a few levels on the opposite side, trying to stay off Onslaught’s radar.

Swindle listened as the others chattered above him. There was a lot of noise from up there, but little action. Tired of doing nothing, he decided to make himself useful. With a thoughtful tilt of his helm, he started chucking debris down on the grating to help shield the mechs below from the burning star.

“Hey,” Nautilator yelled down to him, “What’cha doing?”

Forgetting himself, Swindle shouted back, “Making the trash layer thicker so it doesn’t get so hot down there!”

Nautilator blinked and cocked his head, pondering that.

Then a very familiar voice gave Swindle pause. "Swindle?" Brawl called from several levels down, "That you up there?"

_Scrap!_

"No!" Swindle shouted back in his best _so very offended_ voice, "I’m on bed rest, remember? So I’m still in berth, obviously!"

"You sure about that, buddy?" Brawl didn't sound convinced. Not in the slightest, even.

Luckily for Swindle, Onslaught was too busy escorting Jazz to the med-station to notice. As it took gargantuan amounts of mental fortitude to ignore Brawl's helpful commentary ("hey Onslaught, he's got another knife" – "he's stabbing you, Onslaught" – "there he goes again Onslaught") he didn't hear the conversation.

Meanwhile, Swindle kept throwing more trash. It wasn't long before his actions started an impromptu trash avalanche as the mechs above followed his example. Scrap began to rain down from the earnest audience, helping to shield the carrying mechs and their rescuers from the heat.

 

***

"Here and for the love of scrap, _take him_."

Still leaking from many shallow stab wounds, Onslaught handed off a triple hog-tied and furious Jazz to a rather bored-looking Snarl.

"Maybe he'll behave for you," Onslaught grumbled with a dubious stare as Jazz stared right back at him, cool as a cucumber and currently twice as stabby. "Anyways, those knots should be enough to hold him. Hook is waiting for him in the med-station, so get moving."

"Yeah, fine." Snarl shrugged and looked over his former faction mate as he headed up the stairway. "I know this one, but we never really met."

"Count yourself lucky," Onslaught grunted as he turned his back. Relieved the escort mission was over, he waved at Brawl and both Combaticons began to make their way back down.

As soon as they were out of sight, Jazz looked up at Snarl and wriggled around all pitiful-like. _Help a brother out a lil, mi'mech?_

"Sorry buddy, but I can't cut you free like you want," Snarl said. He was in robot mode and his sympathetic expression offered up the apology that his words couldn’t otherwise express.

Jazz stared back at Snarl, distraught. He was wondering what the hell was going on that even the other Autobots wouldn’t lift a finger to help them. It was a sad look and Snarl wilted for the feel of the other.

"You don't understand what's going on,” Snarl tried to explain. “If you go to ground now, you'll die. Then Pipes will kill me for sure."

Snarl was a little surprised at himself when his spark pulsed for the sad-looking mech in his arms and he wondered if Pipes was rubbing off on him. He'd never been this empathetic with others before and he wasn’t sure if it was a good thing… Dynobots didn’t _do_ sympathy. They kicked aft and charged things and started fights and got drunk and tail-spiked things. Also fishing. The fishing thing happened sometimes. Fishing was fun.

But damn him if Jazz didn’t look like something Ravage dragged in.

Relenting somewhat, Snarl quirked a conspiratorial brow-ridge at Jazz, who perked up a little. "But maybe we'll just loosen these knots a little ... I'm sure Hook wouldn't mind."

***

 

Perceptor blinked awake, wiping at his mouth, wincing to realize he'd fallen asleep at his crude work station again. A dark servo landed on his shoulder and a deep, cheery voice spoke in his audials; Skywarp had come to check on him.

“Hey there,” Skywarp patted Percy on his shoulder, “You look tired. Come on, come back and rest with me and your buddy.”

Perceptor hesitated. He wanted to keep working, but it was getting hot and he _was_ tired. Beyond tired, even. Setting down his welder, he turned and followed Skywarp back to the communal berth. Then he realized the others weren’t back yet. Stepping forward, Perceptor pointed at the bulkhead door, lodged closed. _Where are the others?_

Skywarp looked over his shoulder and made calming motions. _Don’t worry about it. They’ll be back soon, probably._

Percy hesitated, but decided to trust that answer. Leaving the sunken ship was not appealing to him in the slightest. Outside was full of horrible things and horrible people and his coding rewarded him for staying in quiet, enclosed spaces by not filling him full of mindless terror. Unless absolutely necessary, he was not leaving the perceived safety of this ship.

Ahead of him, Skywarp was still limping, but he was getting stronger by the joor. Hopping back into the berth, Skywarp helped pull the two scientists (one sleepy, one long sleeping) to rest against him. He settled them one to a wing and smiled as Percy nestled close. He wrapped an arm around him. Settling back, he began to stroke Percy, wanting him as calm as possible for the magical little trip they were going to be taking shortly.

Preferably asleep ... “Ah, there we go,” he said as Percy drifted off into recharge only moments later.

Guardian coding now active, Skywarp was drenched with pheromones. The two carrying mechs were getting very attached to him. This was awesome for him because they were both falling into a long healing asleep, which meant not only where they going to be his totally compliant frag buddies, but they couldn’t argue with him about anything!

Captive audience for the win!

Even better, there were pranking opportunities here, he just knew it. “We are going to have _so_ much fun together,” he said to the now-sleeping Percy. “Ever heard of planking? It's a thing they do on Earth.” Laughing to himself, he said as much over his private comm with TC.

“Yeah,” Thundercracker said, “About that. You aren’t getting custody of them. No fragging way, ‘Warp.”

“But they love me!” Skywarp screeched over the comms – Starscream would have been proud of the sheer decibels – and Skywarp could just _see_ TC rolling his eyes. “I’m all they’ve got in this miserable world! You can’t take them away from me!”

“They’ve got all of us to watch over them,” Thundercracker said. “And they only love you because they don’t know you yet.”

Perhaps it was a mean thing to say, but Thundercracker _was_ laughing when he said it. “Now get them up here. Hook needs help. He’s having trouble with Prime’s third in command … the mech’s hog tied and cuffed and somehow keeps stabbing people.”

Skywarp sighed, "Sounds like fun," and with a _wharp_ the sunken ship was left empty and silent.

 

***

 

While heading back down, Onslaught slapped mini-patches over his shallow stab wounds, not wanting to spend any more time with Hook if he could avoid it.

"Hold your position there," Megatron called up to him from below. "We have everything under control here."

"You heard him," and Onslaught and Brawl took up guard positions as Brawl stared up at the mess raining down across the levels. Above them, mechs were still tossing scrap across the higher spaces, helping out as they could.

Hesitating, Onslaught dropped his hands to his hips and considered. It _was_ a little cooler down here for the shade. All relative of course, and it wouldn't spare the Autobots for long, but every little bit seemed to help.

Good enough.

Standing at attention like some faithful (and perhaps slightly demented) basset hound, Brawl looked confused as Onslaught strode past him with an armful of slag. He looked even more confused when his squad leader dumped the mess on the grating over the milling rescuers below.

“Why should we help?” Brawl asked.

They weren't under any such orders and part of him still clung to old thinking (Autobots + Burning Flaming Death = Good Times) so normal for so much of his functioning. It was one thing to help out under orders (i.e. Lord Megatron wanting to frag Optimus Prime into every solid surface he could find)...quite another to just be helpful.

“Are they _Cybertronians_ , Brawl?” Onslaught snapped as he grabbed another armful of debris. Someone topside dropped a thick metal chain blanket down though the slats. It tumbled down to fall atop the beleaguered mechs below.

“The frag I care,” Brawl shrugged. “Can’t believe they can still transform without their plates. Looks so … weird.”

“That sounds like a _yes_ then, doesn’t it?” Onslaught snapped. “They are Cybertronian and that means we are going to help them, so give me a hand with this.”

Whatever his words, the truth was a little murkier as Onslaught knew Megatron was watching them; he could see Megatron’s red eye shine out the corner of his eye. Dumping another armful, Onslaught was careful to avoid eye contact while doing it, knowing Megatron was likely scrutinizing him. He wanted Megatron to see how helpful his team was being. Not being under orders – yet still committed to helping Megatron achieve his goals – was entirely the point.

Now that Megatron seemed more sensible, a future worth living seemed just on the horizon, cresting before them like the dawn of a new day. More mercenary-minded than other teams, for the first time Onslaught was actually trying to ingrain his team into Megatron’s good graces, jockeying to be Megatron’s left-handed mech (the right hand still well secured by Soundwave). Long Haul and Thundercracker were attempting to do the same.

Right now, Onslaught was currently in the lead when it came to Megatron’s trust, with Thundercracker rapidly catching up to him. This would translate into greater opportunities later, and when Onslaught stole another glance in Megatron’s direction, he was pleased to see a satisfied smile on his leader’s face. The humans would term said look as ‘brownie points,’ but Onslaught called it an investment for the future.

Of course Brawl didn’t catch the deeper significance. “Okay, right, whatever.” Said murder machine shrugged and started to help and the protective slag-coating grew deeper. Gathering more, he stopped and blinked at an odd-looking piece of scrap.

“Hey Onslaught,” Brawl said with a sudden grin.

Onslaught’s face plates tightened. He knew that tone. _Don't react._

“…Onslaught?”

Onslaught growled low in his intakes.

“Hey, Onslaught!”

Onslaught ground his denta. “What _is it,_ Brawl?”

“You said you needed … _a hand_?” Brawl extended what was left of some mech’s severed servo, waving it under Onslaught’s nasal sensor with a gargantuan slag-eating grin.

 _Don’t react. He’s trying to get under your plating. Don’t react ..._ and Onslaught swallowed with a nice thick roll of his throat, unable to do anything further that wouldn't end in a life-affirming bludgeoning.

Admittedly, ignoring the murder machine never fixed the problem. Neither did punching said murder machine about the head and shoulders. Shooting might, but then he’d have to replace Brawl. Blind loyalty and competent murderous-ness as a combined personality trait was rather hard to come by, unfortunately.

"Oooh hey! This guy's a decent back-scratcher!" Brawl leaned back with a blissful sigh and soon the _scritch-scritch-scritch_ of a tank-former in seventh heaven drifted over to disgrace Onslaught's audials.

Damn Brawl!

“I’m going over _there_. Do not follow me.” And with that, Onslaught strode away, counting backwards under his breath, the very image of a leader driven to the razor’s edge by sheer unrelenting stupidity.

The only silver lining was that he knew every single one of his contemporaries suffered under the same malaise, in one form or another.

 

***

 

The rescue effort was in full swing now and Swindle watched the proceedings with interest while being careful to stay out of sight.

Hot ember-sparks were flying here and there as Scavenger cut through the titan-steel bars above Prime and Sideswipe. It was slow work. Currently he was only halfway through one side.

Swindle was dumping more scrap when he noticed Sunstreaker standing nearby. He was a little surprised that the golden twin wasn’t down amidst the rescue efforts. _Too many below, maybe? He must be waiting for them to finish freeing his brother._

For his part, Sunstreaker stared impassively at the milling crowd of rescuers below. He was careful to stick to the shadows as the burning heat would further peel his paint and ruin the last of his finish. Moreover, he'd refused to handle any of the garbage; content to watch others dirty themselves instead. The wretches below had plenty of mechs in an uproar to rescue them, after all. They hardly needed him.

Deciding the others already had things in servo, Sunstreaker started to walk away.

Swindle watched him turn away while noting the uncaring look on his face. _Rather cold for a spark twin…_ and cursed with a keen sense of curiosity, Swindle decided to risk the golden twin’s ire to ask.

“Hey,” Swindle called after him while dropping another armful, “Isn’t that smaller mech down there your spark brother?”

“What?” Sunstreaker glowered over his shoulder, instantly riled, resenting the reminder of his loss. Did no one have any tact here? When did everyone lose all respect for his fists? ... and of course it wasn’t Sideswipe down there.

Sideswipe was dead _._  

Sunstreaker said as much, his harsh eyes and clenched fists threatening violence if the other didn’t back off. But Swindle was too busy being useful to notice and so didn’t take the hint. Not that he would have taken any hints anyway. The entire Combaticon team was at his beck and call right now. He was pretty sure he could get away with anything, even murder. Well, he couldn’t get away with being out of berth – not on Onslaught’s watch anyway – but definitely murder.

“Pretty sure it’s him,” Swindle said offhandedly while poking at his now-filthy bandages. “I never forget a customer. I sold him the rocket pack mod those little bracket latches – the ones you can see attached to his back strut there – would fasten to.”

" _What_?"

Sunstreaker stepped forward and stared, dumbfounded. There _were_ brackets peeking from the back of the huddled body half-buried in the protective embrace of the Prime.

“That was a distinctive and one of a kind mod,” Swindle explained while casting about for a suitable lie as a certain mech – a mech with mountainous ball bearings – would be sure to notice how filthy Swindle was. Hmm ...... trying out for the one hundred meter trash swim? ...... dirty talk got out of hand? ...... hugged a Junkion! ...... there we go, that would do. “It was custom-ordered and _very_ expensive.”

“He wiped out our savings for it," Sunstreaker whispered, stumbling back a step when realization finally sank in.

Swindle glanced up at Sunstreaker, “So wait, are you actual spark brothers then?”

He was still confused why he'd needed to point out Sideswipe’s identity to his own twin as common knowledge said spark twins could feel each other? Then he frowned, disappointed, as Sunstreaker charged away without another word.

Swindle sniffed. “Some batcher’s protoforms.”

 

***

Sunstreaker hit the lowest level at a dead run.

Unfortunately, his noisy approach warned the others he was coming, and they stepped in his way.

“You aren’t authorized to be down here–” and Ion Storm went flying back for Sunstreaker’s harsh shove. Then the rest of the Armada charged him, but he skidded down and under and slipped past. He darted forward until he was right above Sideswipe – and right next to a startled Megatron – and then thrust his servo down through the slats to try and grab his brother.

Optimus was still curled around Sideswipe, still only marginally unconscious, and tightened his grip on his precious Autobot for the violent tugs. Within kliks he was huffing in upset as Sunstreaker tried to pry Sideswipe away, wanting to hold his brother.

Reaching down, Megatron’s grip on Sunstreaker's shoulder was harsh enough to dent. “Enough. They are barely holding on. Frightening them will only make things worse. This is your only warning.”

Sunstreaker gripped the slats as Megatron began to haul him upright. His crippled spark pulsed with wild dismay as he stared haplessly down at his idiot brother.

 _You stupid fragger!_  

“Wait, please!” Sunstreaker cried out. Megatron stood straight and actually hesitated for the desperation in his voice, so unusual for this aggressive mech.

Kneeling down as close as possible without eating Megatron’s harsh fist, Sunstreaker fought to get closer to his brother. Then his spark dropped even further when he recognized Sideswipe for the Junkion that had occasionally approached him like some sort of pitiful, skinned puppy, and he felt well and truly sick.

_Why didn’t you listen to me? Why didn’t you stay with me? No stupid organics are worth this!_

 

***

Sideswipe was fading in and out of consciousness for the cooling gel over his frame and the raging winds whirling from the seeker turbines. Optimus was still wrapped around him, and that was comforting. He almost sank back again when he realized he wasn’t alone. There were Cybertronian voices above him, and for a moment he couldn’t remember why.

He blinked upwards, now too worried to sink back into a heat-daze, but too hot to do anything other than lay there. Also confusing him was the harsh sound of a metal cutter and flying sparks and why was it so damned hot?

Then Sideswipe startled when he saw a flash of gold through the slats, and he focused on the mechs above to realize that Sunstreaker was there. Gold glimmered and swam within his heat-touched mind, and above him, Sunstreaker was yelling at him through the slats, looking wild. He seemed set to tear the whole place apart, clearly in a right proper rage.

Confused for his struggling processor, Sideswipe was instantly frightened by the look on that beloved face, seemingly directed down at him. Remembering how he’d torqued his brother off and certain that he wasn’t recognized, he knew if his brother got hold of him looking like that then things would end badly for him.

Now frightened, Sideswipe squirmed a little further against Optimus and whistle-chirped for Ion Storm, emitting sharp bursts of fearful sound. As much as he loved his ever-grumpy Sunshine, he was deeply relieved when help arrived barely a klik later.

 

***

“That’s my brother!” Sunstreaker roared. “He’s coming with me!” Setting his pedes, he shoved back at the rescuers. They were demanding he leave, but there was no way in the pit he was leaving 'Sides down there.

"If that's true, why is he afraid of you?" Ion Storm snapped back, ducking the raging fist aimed for his face. "Why did you chase him off a few days ago?"

"Mech’s just fragging with us," Acid Storm complained. "Like we don't have enough to deal with right now!"

"I didn't realize it was him," Sunstreaker defended himself as he wrestled with them. "I thought he was a Junkion."

"Get back topside and we'll sort this out later," Thundercracker said. "Right now we are still working them out from under the grating."

Sunstreaker bared his denta, having already seen the problem, at least where Sideswipe was concerned. He shoved at Thundercracker and said, "It’s Prime who’s holding him down. Just get him off and then give me my brother!"

Thundercracker shoved him back, "We don't want to upset Prime right now–"

"I don't give a flying frag about Prime!" and Sunstreaker really didn’t. He just wanted his brother. Damn these mechs standing in his way! There were too many of them to just bully down and overwhelm like he wanted.

"–and that's why you are going to leave,” Thundercracker said. “Now."

Sunstreaker fought hard, but with the intense heat and while completely outnumbered, he couldn't make much progress. That, and the Rainmakers and especially Thundercracker weren’t interested in his demands right now.

Neither was Megatron.

“Sunstreaker,” Megatron’s booming voice carried from where he stood over the two beleaguered carrying mechs. “Your brother is currently in the best of servos and under _my_ protection. Now remove yourself from this level; you are disrupting our rescue efforts.”

Game set and match. He well knew he wasn't going to win in a scrap with Megatron. Not one-on-one under normal circumstances, and most definitely not with most of the Armada down here to back him up. “Fine,” Sunstreaker said, lifting his arms in querulous surrender. “I’ll go.”

"Good," Thundercracker said as he shoved Sunstreaker back and turned away. “If you aren’t gone the next time I look over, you _will_ be sorry.”

Sunstreaker snorted and took a reluctant step back, not really intending to leave, but not sure how to force the issue.

At the same time, Ion Storm and his brothers left Sunstreaker to return to Megatron’s side. They called reassurance down to the still-clicking Sideswipe and huffing Prime and then reactivated their thrusters. Acting as living fans, they aimed their thrusters down at the ones below.

Ion Storm dropped to his knees, his thrusters blasting, and reached down to stroke Sideswipe’s face. "Hold on, okay? Everything's going to be alright." He smiled when the worried clicks from below quieted for that touch.

“Wait,” Sunstreaker demanded, instantly riled. “Why does _he_ get to stay?”

Thundercracker turned back around and glowered at the furious twin. “Because your brother trusts him and he has active guardian coding. Now if you need an escort–”

“I told you I’m going!” Sunstreaker snapped.

But he didn’t. Instead, he stood choking on his pride and anguish until Megatron’s voice intruded on his mental whirlwind. Turning to argue, he fell silent when he realized Megatron wasn't actually speaking to him. He was murmuring something to Prime, and then Sunstreaker could guess why he wanted the others to stay away.

 _Poems,_ Sunstreaker realized, _Megatron is reciting poetry to Prime._

The words floated through the super-heated air. He didn’t know the work as recited, but he knew the words were less the point… far more the tone with which they were offered. Then he made the mistake of edging closer, and caught Megatron's attention.

Out of patience, Megatron speared him with another warning frown, “Did I not give you an order?”

Sunstreaker held that harsh gaze until Megatron actually took a threatening step towards him. Then he looked away and stepped back. Though he may be contrary to a fault, he wasn’t a fool and knew better than to challenge Megatron.

"He's my brother," Sunstreaker insisted.

“You don’t have active guardian coding,” Thundercracker explained further, though all he really wanted to do was punch the ever-loving slag out of this irritating mech. "We have no idea what the long term affects this coding will have on us. If you aren't active then it's safer to stay away."

"I don't give a fragging–"

"Yeah, we know. That's the problem."

"But–"

"But nothing. You get your aft out of this level or I will have the Combaticons escort you. And I promise you they won’t give one flying frag about your damned paint.”

Megatron’s cold stare added further weight to that threat, and Sunstreaker had no choice but to obey.

 

***

Climbing back up one level, Sunstreaker returned to stand above where Scavenger was cutting. He watched as Thundercracker turned to Megatron and requested leave to check on the other Autobots, and received it. Thundercracker jetted away, taking most of his Armada with him, all but Ion Storm. Straining, Sunstreaker could hardly see his brother past Megatron’s looming frame and he couldn’t get any closer to ‘Sides than that.

It wasn't good enough.

He felt like he hadn't fought hard enough. He wasn't even leaking. He’d backed down before anything serious had happened... and aching inside, he considered ignoring Command’s warnings and heading back down there to demand his brother. Only prudence held him back… prudence and Megatron's fists, anyway. Kicking up a ruckus wouldn’t help him reclaim his brother in the slightest.

Forced to just stand there and wait, he watched as Scavenger worked and his spark began to calm for the quiet. Even then, as upset as he was, it took a bit of time before reality finally knocked some sense into him (in the form of a heavy piece of pipe that zonked him over the helm followed by Pipes' hastily yelled "sorry!" and Bluestreak’s amused door-wing flapping).

Megatron and Ion Storm were already doing everything they could to help ‘Sides. So were the mechs above. The only one who wasn’t helping… was _him_.

Humbled, Sunstreaker stepped back and away. After a moment's hesitation he, too, began to gather scrap. The upper levels were already well coated now and so he focused on the shafts of light still burning down. Armful after dirty armful, he plugged up the rest of the light-gaps while Command kept a wary side-optic on him.

Down below, Scavenger worked diligently, cutting and cutting and cutting. He was almost finished when Sunstreaker plugged up the last of the light-gaps.

With nothing left to do but wait, Sunstreaker stood at the edge of the grating and watched the sparks fly. Thoughts churning, he listened to the surreal sounds of Megatron calling soothing glyphs down to a shaking Prime.

It wasn't enough.

Casting around for anything else that might help, his optics caught on a fluid mainline overhead. Subspacing a sharp blade (Scavenger made it for him) Sunstreaker got to work cutting open the rusty pipe.

 

***

"Doesn't _sound_ like you’re in berth," Brawl called up to Swindle from below.

No, Brawl wasn’t fooled. Yes, he was giving his team mate a chance to get his aft back to berth without danger of an official aft beating. Persistent as death (or a credit-collector) he was showing off his unyielding-bull-dog impression again, much to Swindle's intense annoyance.

"That's because Onslaught just cleared me for duty," Swindle lied again and laughed. It was a nervous laugh as he knew he was pushing it. He really should be heading back anyway. The level he'd claimed for himself was well covered and already felt a little cooler.

Swiping his hands clean, Swindle was most pleased with himself. He would have patted himself on his own back if he could reach it.   _‘Excellent work, Swindle,’_ the Jeep mimicked Megatron’s deep tones. ‘ _What would we do without you? Truly you are a gem amongst the Decepticons.’_

"That don’t sound like something Onslaught would say," Brawl called back. “Fact, this morning didn’t Onslaught say if you was outta berth again he was gonna bolt you down? He was all mad ‘n stuff and then I said, ‘hey, Onslaught’ and he–”

"If you are finished, then you are dismissed, Brawl!" Onslaught's irritated voice came from further away. Much further away. As in, opposite side of the penitentiary away. Far enough away that he couldn’t hear the gist of the conversation, only his good name being repeatedly sullied by Brawl.

"You weren't _singing_ down there, where you?" Swindle tried to change the subject. "You know how much he hates that."

"Naw," Brawl laughed back. "I just told him a joke and he almost laughed...didn't even threaten to punch me! I think he's finally starting to relax a little!"

Yeah, doubt that.

Swindle shrugged and then winced when he realized he'd really over-exerted himself this time. His knee joints almost buckled as his pelvic span complained for all the work he'd done. Lashing out with his hands, he caught the railing just in time to keep from collapsing.

At that exact moment, Brawl arrived from the level below.

Catching sight of Swindle clutching at the railing, he frowned down at his battered team mate. “You _sure_ Onslaught cleared you?”

“Fine! All fine here!” Swindle waved cheekily up at the tank-former while swaying in place. As tired and sore as he was, the last thing he wanted was to lay down...anything but the berth. So boring!

Brawl scowled at the shaky jeep, all suspicious now. “I’ma call ‘em.”

“No need,” Onslaught snapped as he stepped out from the stairway to the level proper. “I’m _right here_. And Swindle, you get your sorry aft back to your berth and I mean double time.”

Swindle pulled out the big guns, optics growing as wide and pleading as possible. “Aw, come on. I’ve been down for cycles already–”

“Brawl!” Onslaught ordered, now entirely out of patience for kicked turbo puppies and unrepentant murder machines. Hell, the only thing he was missing to make this moment complete was a snarking inquisitor – and most especially – a self-aggrandizing shuttle. “Carry him back to his slab and sit on him if you have to.”

Swindle raised his servos in mock surrender. “Just wanted to see what the fuss was about–”

Brawl stomped over with a cheerful grin and swung Swindle up and cradled him close, and away they went, with an overprotective Onslaught trailing after.

 

***

Someone had ruptured a mainline pipe above.

Megatron winced as cooler fluid hit his super-heated plating, crackling and popping across his metal.

Turning to steam almost immediately, at first the fluid didn’t help. But as the vapors continued to billow up the burning light was becoming scattered and somewhat blocked.

As the steam continued to thicken, fluid began to make it down to Prime and Sideswipe below. It splattered their overheated metal and helping cool their frames.

The fluid began collecting in boiling puddles around him. The combined protection of Megatron’s plating above, the fluid, and the heaping garbage made a decently protective layer between them and the violent star.

"Done," Scavenger shouted, and everyone hurried to grab a side and pulled it out of the way.

Unfolding thermal blankets, they wrapped both mechs and hefted them. Ion Storm jetted away with Sideswipe, with Megatron close behind with Prime.

They passed where Sunstreaker was standing at full throttle, roaring up through the stairwells on their thrusters. With a yell of surprise, the golden twin charged after them.

"The Bailiwick corridors are clear," Ion Storm reported from his place right behind Megatron. "The Air Commander ordered everyone either into their rooms for the day or outside if they want to wander around."

"Excellent," Megatron murmured. "I will be taking Prime to my quarters for a shower instead of the communal wash racks."

"Actually," Ion Storm said with a hesitant wing-flick, "It might be better if Prime comes with us. If he wakes up, he will want to see his mechs. I know I would."

Megatron wasn't happy with that, but he couldn't argue the logic.  Jetting up and across the Courtyard, they disappeared down into the cooler reaches of the Bailiwick with both carrying mechs in tow.

Now inside the Combaticon's cell-room, Onslaught was helping Swindle back to berth. The jeep's whining had reached epic proportions by the time Megatron and Ion Storm arrived.

"Mixmaster says his drum is clean and ready for them," Onslaught called out as they passed him.

"They are going to be _so_ thrilled," Ion Storm muttered.

 

***

**TWENTY MINUTES AGO**

The communal showers were running full blast. The cooling fluid was splashing everywhere, and the entire space was full of colorful plating, soft mesh, and flashy wings.

“No way,” Skywarp was saying to the others while holding both scientists under the cascading fluid, tucked one to an arm. "These two are mine. Go find your own."

Startled for the noise, Percy was awaking up; already cool enough to function for having been underground. Resting his helm on Skywarp's shoulder, he watched the noisy proceedings nervously, unsure where he was.  Tucked somewhat precariously in Skywarp's other arm, Wheeljack was still lost to the dreams.

Nova Storm and Acid Storm looked irritated to be carrier-less, while Thrust stared at Skywarp with suspicious wings. "But why do _you_ get two?"

Skywarp sniffed. "They love me too much to accept anyone else. Don't you?" He made a show of nuzzling Percy while the others watched enviously.

At Skywarp's playful mouthing, Percy leaned back a little and blinked at him with curious eyes. Then the sleepy scientist settled his head back down on 'Warp's shoulder, relaxing further as delightful coolness streamed down his face and over his body and down his legs.

 _Oh, that feels good,_ Percy would have sighed, if he could.

"That means yes," Skywarp interpreted the soft sound for the others. "After all, once you've gone full seeker" – he jutted a thumb at himself with a puffed cockpit – "there's no going back."

The others just rolled their optics, wing movements thick with irritation. "Seriously?"

Skywarp was enjoying himself far too much; envy looked _so_ good plastered over his brother's faces like this. Especially when directed at him. “Hey. Finders keepers. The Air Commander said I can have them both.”

Thundercracker stepped inside the communal shower a moment later. “Pretty sure that wasn’t what I said.” Then he whacked his idiot trine mate on his back plates in happy greeting. It was all he could manage, as Skywarp's arms were otherwise too full of sleepy science mechs to hug with any safety.

Skywarp beamed at him, happy to be back. Whatever his boasting, it was obvious that the two scientists _were_ comfortable with him. They were the calmest of the carrying mechs present.

Standing next to Skywarp, Ratchet was far less calm.

Clenching his lucky wrench, Ratchet had finally stopped lashing at out at anyone who came near when Skywarp appeared with Percy and 'Jack. Now he was attempting to guard the helpless Wheeljack while still woozy for the heat, and completely outnumbered and confused.

Across from them, Jazz was the exact opposite of calm.

He'd fought Hook to a standstill, in so much as battering a carrying mech into submission was entirely unacceptable. The experience had not been a pleasant one for either party.  As such, even with the (relatively!) pleasing locale, Jazz was the least happy of anyone present – with the possible exception of Hook.

Holding Jazz out by the scruff under the cooling spray, Hook had the dourest of dour expressions on his long-suffering face. His expression was further underscored by all the patched stab wounds covering his body. Worse, Jazz's valve apparatus was _still_ taunting him.

Catching Hook staring at the torture-device with more than mere clinical interest, Jazz glared back as if daring him to stick his fingers down there again. _Triple dog dare you to try that again_ , was the basic translation.

Hook just snorted and eyed his patient in the superior manner of a cat eying a small, wounded bird under his paws. _Round one may be yours, but only for our audience. Just you wait for round two. This is going to be fun. For me, anyway._

Fortunately for Hook's keen sense of schadenfreude, Scavenger hadn't finished making the new key-logger.  Thanks to Overlord's interruption, he'd never had the time, and now he was too busy working on the air conditioning unit. As could be imagined, Hook was just _spark-broken_ over it. Zounds. What dreadful luck. Ah well. Just going to have to go in there after it manually... all fine and dandy, except for the delicate state of his unruly patient.

Jazz had overheated himself putting up a fight, ending Hook's happy fun times. Displeased and unable to do much about it for clinical concerns (but perhaps more because of his concerned audience) Hook discovered he was the only one willing to handle Jazz anymore.  No one else would dare touch the saboteur. Not while he was so damned mad, anyway. Turbo-hornets had nothing on the little black and white today.

"It's all well for _you_ ," Thrust had said, "You've got thick plating and what's a few more stab wounds? But I don't want any." 

Medical obligation ensured Hook remained committed to patient care. As such, he was making sure enough of the saboteur was under the fluid to be clinically useful. At the same time, he frowned longingly over at Long Haul merrily crowding Prowl in the opposite corner. "You missed a spot," Long Haul said as he reached out with a rag to help Prowl and it was obvious he was more than happy for the bit of one-on-one time.

Hook was less happy, and he and Jazz glared daggers at each other.

Thundercracker took one look at that unhappy little situation and knew he had to do something about it. Stepping close, he offered himself as a substitute living pincushion instead. "I know you are busy," he said to Hook with careful diplomacy, "Would you mind if I take him?"

Hook handed Jazz over without a word. Then he invaded Long Haul's cozy little nook with the utmost glee, to Long Haul's vast irritation and Prowl's general apathy. Reaching out and grabbing hold of Hook, Prowl frowned and pulled on him. Hook let himself be re-positioned as a living barrier between Prowl and the other Decepticons (no touchie!) and was delighted further when Prowl's hand lingered.

Now holding the woozy and very displeased Jazz, Thundercracker checked him over while the saboteur switched glower-dagger targets. But under the bravado, Jazz was shaking with terror, and Thundercracker carefully set him on his pedes. Sinking down so he was lower than Jazz in an attempt to look less threatening, he reached out and touched the bindings on Jazz’s hands.

“I’d like to take these off,” Thundercracker said, tapping them in offer. “If I do, will you stay calm? We aren't hurting you and no one likes to bleed, right?”

Sympathetic red eyes met suspicious blue ones, and then Jazz looked away and dropped his helm a bit, and Thundercracker took that for agreement. Unbinding the smaller mech, he remained close and watchful, but Jazz didn’t otherwise move.

Then Ratchet scurried over. It seemed a dreadful risk, but Ratchet braved the milling crowd of Decepticons to check on Jazz. He was still brandishing his wrench threateningly but everyone let him move about without the slightest hint of threat. No one reacted in the slightest, just so long as he stayed inside the wash racks.

Ratchet reached Jazz a moment later. It was obvious from his expression that he was more than a little surprised to remain unmolested. Touching Jazz gently, Ratchet took one look and shook his helm. _You just stand there_ , he warned the trembling Jazz with half-wild optics, _while I do this before **they** do, _ and then he pulled out the stolen key-logger.

Thundercracker had followed behind, keeping watch as Ratchet glomped onto Jazz. He loomed protectively over them both and then grinned when he recognized the stolen tool. "So that's where that went.”

Thundercracker shot a glance over at Skywarp and than Hook, expecting all hell to break loose. But fortunately for Jazz, Hook was too distracted with Prowl to notice that Ratchet was busy cancelling his upcoming happy fun times. Ratchet bend over and there was a series of rattles, and the miserable device fell out and away.

Jazz curled around himself, suddenly overwhelmed with everything. His optics were tightly closed and his framing was shaking, and Ratchet held him close as Thundercracker gently herded them both under the cooling shower spray.

Skywarp started waving at Thundercracker, pointing at the tool. He didn’t want Hook to see his stolen key-logger for very good reasons. For all his frantic motions, Percy had to clutch at him to keep from falling.

"Here ‘Warp, let me help you with that," Thundercracker said. He was frowning while taking Wheeljack from the now pouting Skywarp and he flicked his wings negatively at his trine mate. There was no way he was letting Skywarp keep them. Either of them.

_No fragging way._

Skywarp recovered from his disappointment in mere nano-klicks. Ever the opportunist, he snatched the key-logger back from Ratchet’s startled fingers, offering Ratchet a cheeky grin as he subspaced it.

“Thrust,” Thundercracker held out Wheeljack, “Take this one. Make sure he cools down as much as possible. And don't get too attached, I haven’t assigned him or the others to anyone yet. They are all going into Mixmaster's drum for the next few days."

Skywarp blinked at the news. “His drum? You know he kills people with that? I mean, sure it’s hot out here, but it’s not that bad.”

"You think today is hot?!" Scavenger yelled from where he was now working on the air conditioning unit. "You haven't seen _nothing_ yet!"

 

***

 

Megatron and Ion Storm arrived shortly after, both holding the last two Autobots. Sideswipe and Optimus Prime were both badly overheating. Rushing inside, Ion Storm pushed a curious Thrust out of the way. All the shower spots were running full blast, and the room was filled with colorful plating.

"Why are there so many mechs in here?" Ion Storm muttered, and Megatron grunted agreement. They both disliked the noise, discovering that the boasting, chattering, and posturing was irritating their guardian coding, which was pushing them to find a secluded, _quiet_ spot for their carrying mechs.

Forced to make due for the time being, Ion Storm claimed the nearest gushing shower nozzle. Placing Sideswipe down on his pedes, he helped him stay upright and held him under the fluid spray. He rubbed along his back, feeling him relax. His efforts paid off as the cooling fluid was enough to drop 'Sides temperature back to a point where he could function. After a few moments, his glassy _here but not here_ expression eased and he started blinking.

Then Sideswipe tilted his helm back and just enjoyed the coolness cascading over his body. Soft little moans escaped him, and Ion Storm was beyond pleased to see how much he was enjoying himself.

"See?" Ion Storm murmured down at 'Sides with a little smile, "I told you everything was going to be okay. All your friends are here and safe."

Also disliking the crowd, Megatron shouldered through as well, his sheer force of presence scattering the mechs before him. Claiming a central spot for himself and his still unconscious Prime, he watched with keen eyes as his counterpart stirred for the cooling fluid. Prime moved a little, but otherwise didn't wake. The hole in his mind was becoming an irresistible force, though he kept fighting it with all he was.

Unwilling to put him down, Megatron kept glancing at the crude shower doorway while his dark plating hissed for the cooler fluid now gushing over them both. Right now, all he wanted was to secure Prime in their quarters and give him a more intimate work over in the privacy of their personal shower. But he chose to remain there for now, for the sake of the other carrying mechs. He could see they were all still so frightened, and were comforted to see their Prime.

Under Megatron’s stern gaze, the celebratory mood in the communal showers settled down a bit. Still, there were too many mechs crowded in here for comfort. This was _not_ a party!

"Thundercracker–"

Megatron was just about to issue orders to clear the room, but gold plates and an anxious face caught his attention. He could see Sunstreaker standing outside the bars of the communal shower. Sunstreaker was threatening to enter, trying to work past the crowd of mechs hovering around the wash racks, both inside and out.

Thundercracker, too, noted the troublesome Lamborghini's arrival. As much as he wanted the golden twin to stay out, he also didn't want a ruckus as the carrying mechs were starting to settle down. Seeing one of their own fighting to reach them for unknown reasons would make jumping to terrible conclusions much more likely, which would only make things worse for them.

"I understand sir," Thundercracker said, having caught the gist of Megatron's upset from his voice.  Seeing the tight expression on Sunstreaker's face and the faint tremble of his fingers, TC decided to be diplomatic. "Too crowded in here," he called out. "Anyone who isn't currently helping someone, head outside, now."

Sunstreaker scowled as disappointed flight mechs began filing out. He started to enter anyway, but froze when Sideswipe caught sight of him and ducked behind Ion Storm.

"There will be consequences for those who disobey," Megatron's harsh warning drifted over the sounds of rushing fluid. Fully distracted with Prime, he was barely paying the room any mind anymore.

Sunstreaker ground his denta, beyond upset. He was well aware he'd caused this, threatening his brother at every turn. He just wanted to get Sideswipe away from all this. He needed a chance to explain himself and apologize and make things right, but it felt like everyone was determined to keep him from his brother and he was damned sick of it. But his usual modus operandi of _punch the problem into submission_ wasn't going to be useful here.

Realizing Megatron's threat was anything but idle, Sunstreaker forced himself to stay outside the communal shower, and began to work his way to the closest set of outer bars to his brother. His fists stayed clenched right up to the moment his brother peeked at him from around Ion Storm's arm.

Meeting Sunstreaker's stare by accident while trying to sneak a peek, Sideswipe's blue eye-shine vanished within an instant, seemingly for fear.

Swallowing down his anxiety, Sunstreaker shoved Acid Storm out of the way and threatened to do the same to Nova Storm. Ignoring their complaints, he forced his way between them - now right up against the bars - to get closer to his brother. Casting about for something comforting to say to 'Sides that wouldn't be _too_ embarrassing, he winced when he remembered his brother couldn't understand him anymore.

Ion Storm took that moment to glance over his shoulder, trying to see who Sideswipe was playing hide and seek with while using his wings as cover.

_Oh._

"He's cooling off and calming down," Ion Storm said, the equivalent of offering something of an olive branch.

Sunstreaker relaxed a little to hear that. Then he caught sight of more blue eye-shine from behind the protective shield of Ion Storm's wings and it was becoming obvious that his brother wasn't actually angry with him.

'Sides was just afraid. 

Sunstreaker ached to see how timid his normally outgoing brother was now. It hurt to see how far the Quints had ground him down with their sick tortures. "Fragging Quints," he cursed them, remembering the horrifying night they were torn and separated. Next to him, Nova Storm and Acid Storm grunted agreement.

No argument there.

Sideswipe was staring now. Hesitant, he held Sunstreaker's gaze for a moment, dropped it, looked back, and Sunstreaker was still staring at him. It was Sunstreaker's soft tones that were tugging on him, combined with the look on his face.

"Hey," Sunstreaker called softly, "Settle down over there. It's _me_ for frag's sake, nothing bad's going to happen to you. So the sooner you calm down, the sooner I can take you back to our room."

 

***

Sideswipe really was starting to relax.

It helped enormously that Ion Storm was still rubbing his back, watching over him and that he felt so...safe. 

Once again he peeked back at his brother. Sunny was acting weird, crazy intense, but not threatening. Also weird was that Ion Storm didn't seem to consider him a problem like before. 

Another peek, as Sideswipe couldn't stop himself. Sunny was still there, met his optics, still staring with that intense little expression.

Sideswipe sucked in a little breath when his spark did something odd inside him; lifted hopefully and then sank in dread all at once. Sunny wasn't mad. Sunny was staring at him. Why was Sunny staring at him if he wasn't mad?  Suspicious, Sideswipe lifted his fingers and waved a little – _absolutely tiny!_ – 'hey there brother of mine how are you', barely a little curl of his fingers while holding eye contact and Sunstreaker's sharp, instant grin was a shock.

Sideswipe's optics widened a little with realization…and then filled with a blend of sheer joy and panic.

_He knows._

 

***

"He's staying with Ion Storm, you know."

Surrounded by his seeker brothers, Acid Storm didn't bother with minding his manners and hurried to help Ion Storm stake his claim instead. "Just because you are spark brothers doesn't mean you control him. Besides," and here Acid Storm looked down at his lower plating, "He needs _...stuff_. You can't give him that."

"The frag I can't?" Sunstreaker looked confused and irritated all at once. "What do you mean by that?"

Nova Storm joined the conversation with a bit of a scowl, "You are spark brothers." He said it like that was an explanation in and of itself, and in a way, it was. Incest seemed pretty straightforward as a 'not good thing.' Sunstreaker just snorted, perceiving the situation in an entirely different light. "We share the same spark. One spark, two frames. We are, in effect, the same person in two different bodies."

Acid Storm cocked his helm and looked confused that this was still a point of argument. Did the yellow twin need a picture or something? "So that means you're honest to Primus brothers... right? So doing it with your brother is kind of... _wrong_ , isn't it?"

"What?" Sunstreaker snapped, "You never do it with yourself?"

Both seekers stared at him, processing that. Sunstreaker grinned at them, and made a lewd gesture for jerking off, and he could _see_ the concepts re-arranging behind their eyes.

"Well," and now Nova Storm sounded uncertain and kind of irritated, "He's still with _us_ , anyway."

Sunstreaker quirked a brow ridge with a smirk. "We'll see about that."

Acid Storm lifted and dropped his wings with a _click_ and Sunstreaker left it at that. He was too busy playing optical hide and seek with his wildly embarrassed and oh-so-relieved brother to bother with them anymore.

 

***

Then Mixmaster arrived, and everything went straight to the Pit.

"You are putting them in _there?!"_   Sunstreaker's outraged voice echoed in the confines of the Bailiwick. "He _kills people_ in that-"

"We know!" Everyone shouted back and more time was wasted explaining, yet again, the entirety of the Autobot's desperate situation. And no, nobody was sleeping with anyone or going home with anybody tonight. Too damned hot, and yes, Sunstreaker, Prime wasn't going in the drum, but only because he _wouldn't fragging fit._

It didn't help that after transforming into his vehicle form, Mixmaster was far from subtle. Revving his engine with rough, aggressive surges, he began backing up to the communal shower entrance with his caution horn blaring and his warning lights flashing all wild-like. “Cleaned and ready for habitation,” Mix shouted out to the rest of them with a cheerfulness that was...concerning.

“Are you certain you will be capable of remaining in vehicle mode until the air conditioning unit is fixed?” Megatron asked him. Glorious Leader was still a little dubious over the entire prospect, and he wasn't the only one.

Beyond the already ominous-looking drum, Mixmaster was giggling as if near-hysterical and it was... well, it was a little unnerving. Maybe a lot unnerving. Actually it was horrifying. The entire seeker Armada flicked nervous wings at each other and Megatron was beyond relieved that Optimus would be sleeping with _him_ tonight.

"I have reservations," Ion Storm announced to no one in particular, and everyone nodded, but no one did anything. It was too damned hot, and this was the best option for all involved.

For their part, the Autobots still had no idea what was happening. Leaning against their rescuers (even Jazz had calmed somewhat by then) they continued to stand under the splashing fluid, distracted by the lovely coolness and feeling better for all the comforting hands.

"Going to make the best of this," Thundercracker said and began pulling out and lining the inside of Mixmaster's drum with a few cleaned pieces of scavenged bedding. Reached inside, he laid out more soft thermal blankets for them. The air coming out of Mix’s drum was so cold in comparison to the heat outside that odd-looking mists formed.

Then the cooling shower ended, and the Autobots were escorted as a group towards the drum.

High pitched chirps of horror and panic ensued when the Autobots realized where they would be sleeping for the foreseeable future.  Having no way to understand what was happening with the world at large, this seemed like some sort of nightmare scenario. Terrified for the others, Ratchet lifted his wrench and absolutely everyone winced when Jazz started frantically searching his subspace for a spare knife for more stabby-stabby.

At this point, Megatron chose to take Prime back to his quarters, and tore off with great haste. "Remember to check his subspace for fuel!" Onslaught called after him. Skywarp had informed them that Prime had some sort of energon supply, though no one had any idea how much might be left. Megatron called acknowledgment back at him, increasing his pace as the keening noise he was leaving behind was spark-rending and he didn't want Prime to wake for it.

The trilling panic was so intense that Thundercracker actually had stick his helm in the drum for a full minute to prove it wasn’t full of caustic acids designed to melt Autobots into gooey strings of sentio metallico.

"Mixmaster," Thundercracker all but begged with his helm still inside the drum, "Would you mind muting your vocalizer until we can get them inside?"

"Sorry." Mixmaster's giggles finally cut off to the relief of absolutely everyone.

It took some effort, but Ion Storm was the first to coax his carrying mech inside, along with help from Sunstreaker. Standing and staring at the dangerous-looking aperture, Sideswipe kept looking first at Ion Storm and then at Sunstreaker, eyes wide and disbelieving. They wanted him to climb in there? Seriously? Today was getting better and worse and better and worse in crazy cycles and he didn’t want to go in there.

“He doesn’t want to go in there,” Sunstreaker grumbled, taking the opportunity to hug his brother tightly, and 'Sides pressed close, already woozy and starting to look confused now that he wasn't under the cooling spray. “He could just come back with me to our room–”

“Look at him,” Ion Storm said. “He’s already starting to overheat again. So are the others. I don’t like it either, but we don’t have any other options. If they can fit then they have to go in the drum.”

Thankfully, Sideswipe trusted them both and after plenty of soothing gestures, and after Sunstreaker reached inside the drum and then nodded (it did feel deliciously nice in there) they finally managed to get 'Sides to try it out.

Sideswipe reached in suspiciously and then gasped in amazement for the cold air inside. Crawling in, his relieved chirps convinced the others that perhaps going in there _was_ a good idea after all.

Ratchet was the last inside, and Mixmaster cycled the drum-hatch closed after him.

Then the squeaking _really_ started. There was a cacophony of chirps, clicks, irritated huffs, and all manners of non-verbal squeaking as they all struggled to get comfortable while squished together. It was rather difficult with so little room and with the drum's curving sides and with so much belly between them. But they finally managed and the excitable, angry tones soothed away to soft, relieved little clicks.

So nice and cold in here!

... Maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

"Heh," Thundercracker said with a touch of laughter. "I think they might actually like it."

But they were still one carrying mech short. “Hey,” Skywarp called, “Where’s the one with the door-wings?”

Long Haul waved his inquiries away. “Prowl isn’t your concern. If you have to know, he’s inside Mixmaster’s cab. Mix is borrowing on his mass displacement generator to make his cab bigger.”

Skywarp couldn't believe his audials.

_The hell?_

“There is no way that is possible.” Never one to let politeness get in the way of a good gawk, Skywarp peeked into the driver's side window and, sure enough, Prowl was in there. It was still a tight fit but somehow he was making it work. Better than being so crowded inside the drum that he could hardly move ... and Mixmaster felt less an intrusion and more like a protective embrace. A protective embrace with benefits, even.

 _He's doing way more then just making it work,_ Skywarp realized when he recognized the rhythmic movements and the particular mechanism Prowl was moving over. Then he flashed a massive grin at Mixmaster. No wonder the mech was so damned happy. “I didn’t realize your stick shift was your spike in vehicle mode.”

“They forced me to adjust him,” Hook scowled in explanation, and it was true. He'd been so peeved over the request that they'd had to make him do it at gunpoint...err, fistpoint? Under threat of a damned good beating, anyway. The problem was that _his_ cab was practically nonexistent. There was no way he could demand to host Prowl, unlike the others. It wasn't _fair_.

Oh well. At least he had Bluestreak and _especially_ Jazz to look forward to working on. That was something at least, and he mumbled something to that effect, just loud enough to be heard.

Thundercracker was smiling. “About that–”


	20. Internment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are many cuddles (and some punches).

So much happiness.

Thundercracker relaxed to hear all the wordless squeaks of relief echoing inside the confines of Mixmaster's drum.

The panicky trilling from their captive Autobots had finally soothed over into near-joyful clicks and chirps, and it felt like confirmation of a good idea (that had seemed like _such_ a bad idea mere moments before).

Not all was right with the world outside, though. “I couldn’t get him to calm down,” Acid Storm said. He sounded a little petulant, but not for himself. “I really tried, but nothing I did helped at all. He just wouldn’t relax.”

Thundercracker winced.

He knew that Acid Storm and Nova Storm had done their best to calm and comfort Jazz. They had been so thorough that near the end of the cooling shower, Jazz’s valve had even cycled open and ready, fully responsive to the kind hands trying to soothe him, his frame desperate for such attention. But beyond his frame’s automatic responses, Jazz had remained stiff and unhappy. He’d refused to accept their advances and offers. The shivering in his fingers had revealed his feelings for their courting. He hadn’t actually fought their hands, but he wasn’t _accepting_ them either.

The look on Jazz’s face had been pure misery, and it didn’t bode well for future interactions.

Thundercracker placed a servo against Mixmaster’s drum aperture. “We can hardly blame him for that. Some mechs bounce back from physical abuse pretty quick, but some mechs need time to process. It’s no surprise that he wouldn’t want anything physical from us.”

“But he needs–”

Thundercracker snapped his wings and his Armada fell quiet.

 Nova Storm nodded approval for that unspoken statement and his wings twitched nervously. “Look,” Nova addressed his fellow seekers, “I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Done things during the war that mechs should never … that shouldn’t be done to anyone.”

“Heh, yeah, you guys were something else,” Thrust laughed, utterly failing to respect the moment, “Remember that time when you sparked up Sunstorm by accident and he was going to terminate but we all wanted a bitlet 'cause bitty little seeker wings are _so damned cute_ and we all begged and begged but he said _no fragging_ _way_ and so we all got together and kidnapped him and hid him in that substation room on Scatterpoint Station and we took turns painting ourselves to look like him so nobody would find out but then fragging _Dirge_ ratted us out and then Command made us–”

Thundercracker scowled, “That wasn’t an invitation _,_ Thrust.”

Nova Storm threw a harsh glance at Thrust, because _yes_ , he absolutely remembered that and thanks for the reminder, aft! 

Ion Storm frowned, “That was sad, Thrust. It wasn’t funny in the slightest. I was going to teach the sparklet how to fly–”

“Sunny Skies never forgave us for that either, did he?”

“Nope. He never did,” Skywarp said, “Right up to the day he got pile-dived by the Arielbots, he fragging _hated_ you guys. Last words were, and I quote, ‘I fragging hate those guys.’ Seriously, no joke! Ask Blitzwing if you don’t believe me–”

“–didn’t _say_ it was funny, I was saying that _he_ was saying that–”

“What I am _saying_ ,” Nova Storm snapped through the chatter, “Is that things are different now. The war is over and I don’t want to go back to those days. This mech doesn’t want me to help him like that and I can't force an interface on him. If it comes to it … all I’m saying is … I can’t do this.”

Thundercracker sighed in agreement. “To be honest, I am not sure what to do about him. The other Autobots will see it as abuse if we force him. Leave it for now. I am going to talk to command at length about this before we flip over to that air current.”

 _Hopefully whatever’s coming down that particular airstream isn’t as bad as this little situation was,_ Thundercracker thought as he stared at Mixmaster’s scratched up (but apparently rather comfortable) drum.

Coaxing the Autobots inside that little space had been something of a feat, and he was still a little keyed up over all the panicked keening. Megatron had fled with Prime so fast he'd left contrails, but now it seemed like the worst was over. The cold air and comfortable blankets had done the trick.

Thundercracker spent another few moments listening to the soft, contented noises coming from inside Mixmaster’s drum and then reported as much over the command comms. Sounding pleased with the update, Megatron left the line shortly after, having his servos full with his new berth mate.

"Alright," Thundercracker called, "Party's over and it's getting stupid hot, so get some recharge. You can head out and settle in, Mixmaster. Let me know if you need anything."

Mixmaster flashed his lights in acknowledgement. The Armada watched as he started to drive away, heading towards the deeper places. It seemed a peaceful scene, until Mix reactivated his vocalizer as he turned the corner … and the giggling started up again.

_Ugh._

“Stay with him,” Thundercracker ordered, flicking a wing at Skywarp. "We will take turns keeping an eye on him."

Thundercracker relaxed even further when 'Warp nodded agreement – with a respectful salute, even! – and then turned to follow after Mixmaster without so much as a word in protest.

"Always happy to do your bidding, oh evil master!" Skywarp called merrily over his shoulder, rolling 'evil' until the glyph encompassed a full three kliks.

_Fragger._

…

The mid-day heat filled the air with an electric intensity as Megatron jetted across the Courtyard to the caves on the far side. He left rusty contrails in his wake, his thrusters stirring the trash beneath him. His was the only movement topside as everyone else had taken shelter by this point.

Optimus Prime lay restless in his arms, struggling towards consciousness, and Megatron hurried towards their shared quarters. He was well aware that his counterpart would not last long in the unfettered light of day.

Reaching the caves and plunging downward, he reached their quarters in record time. Impatient, he edged the door open with a pede and carried his counterpart across the threshold and inside.

The near-empty room greeted them with gloomy silence, furnished only with a berth and a few questionable-looking chairs and a side-table with unleveled legs (Scavenger hadn’t made these).

Overlord’s interests had been rather … messy, and everything had to be ditched for the oil and other questionable stains. Now there was little in the way of furnishings.

Having finished cleaning out Overlord’s various effects and ‘projects’ only the day before, Megatron found the confines of the small room suitably utilitarian, as reflecting his tastes. Other than the cooler temperatures, the only advantage this space owned was privacy, but that was more than enough. Already his churning instincts were soothed by the smaller space, darkness, and solitude.

 _Finally,_ Megatron thought.

It was good to have some peace and quiet to tend Prime as he desired … or more, perhaps, as his guardian instincts desired? He wasn't sure where his feelings ended and the coding’s interference began. As displeased as he was over the foreign code, there was nothing he could do about it right now.

Limited in resources and recourse, he chose not to dwell on it.

Prime was still squirming in his arms and _his_ desires were not so suspect. Uncomfortable for the harsh temperatures, he’d been further disturbed for the unhappy cries they’d left behind; his Autobots had not been impressed to be stuffed into Mixmaster’s drum. Not wanting a scene, Megatron had promptly fled with Prime for quieter locales. But their frantic protests had disturbed Prime, dragging him from something resembling true sleep and propelling him towards wakefulness.

“Easy,” Megatron murmured to the angry, struggling truck. “I am doing my best for you and yours, Prime.” He was halfway to the berth when a crackle-burst in his audial startled him.

Thundercracker’s voice filtered in from his HUD, reporting over the command comms that the Autobots had finally accepted their new accommodations. They were settling in now, and it seemed the unpleasantness was over.

Megatron grunted acknowledgement and killed the line. At least that mess was sorted.

Now only Prime remained in danger; necessitated by his larger size and the drum’s small space. Megatron glanced down at him as he settled Prime down on the berth, frowning as Prime was still struggling to wake and he wondered how long it would be before Prime joined his Autobots in the healing sleep.

“There’s really no point in waking,” Megatron assured Prime while laying him out over the berth. “It’s the day cycle and we are both overdue for recharge.”

Prime did fall quiet, but Megatron was not so deluded to think his words were having that effect; far more likely Prime's rising temperature was to blame. It didn’t matter how Prime felt about their shared situation, for within some temperature range his processor would simply shut down.

Already Megatron could tell Prime was sinking away. “Don’t leave me yet,” he murmured. “I know you have a bit of fuel stashed, but we will have to wait to sort your subspace until it is cooler. As I have no idea when you’ve last fueled, I saved something for you.”

Pulling out a crude container, Megatron coaxed some of the fuel inside into Prime’s intakes, pleased when Prime reacted with pleasure, licking at his lips. Megatron knew the taste, a thick stew full of weighty bits, fragrant and spicy.

“The sweet taste of revenge,” Megatron boasted as he coaxed more of the soup down his counterpart’s intakes. “The wretch that tortured us is dead at my hands. At least his sorry flesh made for an excellent repast.”

Prime enjoyed his meal so much that he even sleepily reached for the cup, and Megatron helped him drink the rest in noisy swallows. “A fitting end for such a vile chapter in our lives. I only wish you were aware enough to savor the moment,” and Megatron smiled faintly as the last drops disappeared, “but I know that is not in your spark.”

Daring to lick away the few drops left on Prime’s lips, Megatron spread them over his tongue. “Rest assured,” he grinned darkly while helping Prime back into a prone position, “My hatred of _them_ more than makes up for your kinder viewpoint.”

Gathering up some cooling gel, Megatron began to coat his counterpart, preparing him to rest for the duration of the day cycle.

Still enjoying the taste in his mouth, Prime sighed and relaxed further for the pleasant touches and more than anything, Megatron loved that sound. Then he mouthed along soft neck cables, his intakes tickling and it pleased him that whatever the future held, right now Prime was enjoying his attentions.

Prime was even starting to get cuddly, already half-there and wanting comfort. Pressing against the hands stroking him, Prime nuzzled back against the mouth at his neck. He curled around with a soft engine purr and one thigh spread and, with that invitation, Megatron relented. Growing bolder, he let his fingers roam down to sensitive places, rubbing down the span of hip and thigh and lower, flirting with the warming array below. 

He knew he should wait, remembered all his promises, but _damn_ was he tired of being patient. His lower frame ached, wanting to provide and Prime was giving every sign of desiring his attention. 

“You aren’t properly functional,” Megatron murmured, “But better to ask forgiveness for being too bold then to beg forgiveness for letting our unborn go without.” With that justification uttered, his mind and spark eased for what lay ahead. Then his servos fully left the realm of mere tending and wandered far south.

Tilting his helm back with a soft sound, Prime’s fingers curled restlessly through the crude folds of the berth cover.  He spread his legs wider, moving instinctively. Lubricant was a faint gleam, however, for it disappeared almost instantly in the hot air. His scent was still cloying though. It grew stronger by the moment and finally Megatron gave up all pretenses.

Checking him with strong, blunt fingers, Megatron grew pleased to find him ready, cycled open with restless calipers.

His plating flared with anticipation, his spike offered gifts of lubricant and he kissed the other mouth as he struggled to position himself, however awkwardly for their disproportionate frames. Warmth flooded his body from his spark when Prime returned his desire and helped him enter, moving his hips to position the spikehead pressing at his entrance, returning his soft moan of pleasure.

Fully seated now and deep, Megatron lead their timeless dance, thrusting in slow, steady motions. He tended the other's pleasure carefully, amping charge from every node until they sang, the slide of his spike over lubricated metal a sheer joy. 

They were both shivering now. Moaning openly, Prime was trying to push up into the plunging spike, trying to move with Megatron, and he wrapped his hands around Prime's hips, helping him lift himself, helping him thrust back into his pleasing spike.

Then Prime stiffened with a sharp cry and his valve cycled down.

Megatron felt his spikehead drawn up into that tiny space - the secondary valve opening - so needy and he moaned as his transfluid was all but sucked from him and he convulsed in glorious waves. Prime enjoyed every hot pulse. His fingers clenched at dark plating hard enough to dent and he floated joyously, lost in his drowsy pleasure. 

Spike held hostage, Megatron's plating remained flared while he was massaged into full compliance, his full length throbbing in that tight, clenching little passage. He struggled against the urge to keep moving. He forced away the desire to roll his hips in little circles, to exalt in the feel of Prime ... but any of his fluid that didn't make it into the secondary valve was wasted.

Prime needed every drop.

Instead, he reached down and squeezed Prime's hip stuts with dizzy affection. He'd already emptied his ready transfluid, but Prime wasn't finished with him, not yet. He was being coaxed towards a secondary overload, that long, slow release that would empty his reserves ... and it proved to him just how much Prime needed him.

He nuzzled Prime again and then stiffened when the tightness across his belly burst a second time. He braced himself against the berth and shuddered and shuddered through his second release, spark racing to the sounds of Prime's wild pleasure-cries. 

Finally Megatron pulled out, shaking. He wasn't so far gone to miss Prime's soft little cry of protest ... his counterpart was already wanting for another round. He returned to his senses a moment later and the first thing he processed was the delightful sense of emptiness, of service rendered to perfection and his singing, oh-so-satiated circuit lines.

But the second realization saw him wince.  He'd forgotten himself, had lost his senses in the moment and he realized he needed to stop encouraging Prime to move. He grew concerned for the way Prime was gasping for breath, frame overheated for their lovemaking.

Still shivering in post-overload, Prime was a little less concerned for himself. His pleasure was still downing out his frame's overall discomfort. The scent of their sex, of interfacing and transfluid was heavy about them, and something in that scent was tantalizing to him.

Prime brushed his mouth over dark abdominal plating. He followed after those enticing scent markers to the interface array below. Megatron was still soaked with lubricant for their interfacing. He'd all but drained himself dry of lubricant in his service, and that scent was strongest here. Prime nuzzled at the still pulsing spike, a silvery tongue tasting the rapidly drying fluids still coating him. He still wanted Megatron’s spike within him, only now it seemed he wanted it in his intakes.

Looking down at the mechanism eagerly tracing his spike-ridges, Megatron blinked. “Needy today, aren’t we?” His words invoked images of pots and kettles and shared char but still he remained sensible and rescued his overly eager spike from Prime’s intakes. His denial marked the end of their play.

Back to task…

“Not today,” Megatron murmured as he snapped his interface panel closed with _snick_ of finality. Instead, he wrestled the woozy, pleasure-drenched frame into a compliant position for lifting, ignoring his feverish counterpart's insistent nuzzling. He refused to go there today, as there seemed a good chance Prime would be upset to wake with the coppery taste of transfluid in his intakes. He was almost certain Prime wouldn’t remember having initiated the contact.

_Ah well._

“You will need to request that of me when you are awake, but at that point,” and here Megatron rumbled in amusement, “I would be _most_ pleased to humor your request.”

Hefting his barely functional counterpart, Megatron settled Prime properly into the berth. He wiped off Prime's lower frame – though there was little in the way of fluid that hadn’t fallen victim to the heat and already dried – as he considered the unspoken request. _It might indicate cybertonium depletion, perhaps,_ he mused as he worked. There were several specialized cybernetic proteins that couldn’t be easily synthesized off world. Cybertonium was one of the more serious of them.

Creating a new Cybertronian from scratch was a complex and nutrient-expensive process. It was part of the reason the carrier required continued support, as such depletion was dangerous for both protoform and carrier. Donation ensured both survived the process without complications.

Coating Prime in gel, Megatron wiped his hands clean. He placed his fingers in his own intakes to cool them and then gently checked Prime’s temperature. He placed the pads of two fingers under Prime's glossa.

Less pleased for that invasion, Prime argued with the fingers in his mouth, but Megatron insisted. “Just getting a sense for how you are functioning,” he explained, however futile and Prime calmed as soon as he pulled his fingers back. It was hard to get a sense for his temperature, but he guessed it was on the higher end of miserable but not lethal, and then he settled back to rest with Prime.

Pulling up Wreck-Gar’s bag of treasures, he pulled out the dog-eared little book entitled ‘Prenatal Yoga for Partners’ written in the Junkion’s symbol-language and he glanced over it again. He’d started reading it, but it seemed so … _eh._ He also pulled up the guide data-files he’d requested from Hook and began reading those. While idly checking over the toys inside for any sharp edges or dangerous rust, a small, thin item fell out.

Megatron turned the little thing over and over in his fingers, recognizing the low-tech gestation tank thermometer. Like everything the Junkions created, it was questionable-looking. The little device looked cobbled together and chipped. It did seem very sturdy, though. It had an accompanying transmission chip, which he plugged into one of his data ports after a moment of hesitation. A tiny download later and a little readout popped up in his HUD displaying the temperature of the metal in contact with the device.

Currently that was his fingers, and the readout was startling. Megatron checked it against his own external gauge, pleased to find them comparable.

_This will be most useful!_

The thermometer was of Junkion design, meant to be installed into a particular style of gestation tank. Unfortunately, Prime’s gestation tank wasn’t of the correct type. Nor was it so readily accessible and application would have to be manual.

Oral seemed the best solution, but Optimus fought the thermometer in his mouth, disliking something about it. His electromagnetic fields pulsed with offense. In his semi-conscious state he shook his helm as if to rid himself of the irritant. Then when Megatron insisted, he nipped at it.

 _No,_ was the general concept. _Don’t want that._

“Prime.”

Now irritated, Prime spat it out with a note of finality. _I said no._

Megatron frowned as he realized this bull-helmed fussing was merely a taste for what was coming. Prime wasn’t even awake yet, and already he was fighting. Beyond the famed carrier fastidiousness, Prime seemed genuinely upset and combative.

“I am trying to monitor your temperature,” Megatron explained to his irritated companion. “This is literally a matter of life and death. Both you and our unborn will die if you overheat above a certain temperature.”

 _Fortunate it is that without his plating, he will not be capable of putting up much of a fight, even more so for his condition and general heat exhaustion._ The thought occurred as he rescued the small thermometer from the floor where Prime had cast it.

He went back to struggling to re-insert the small, thin probe into those protesting intakes. It was roughly the length of his longest finger and much thinner. It should be easy to tolerate, but Prime was clicking protest now. His soft noises were all muffled for his half-functioning state, but it was clear he was well perturbed over the matter.

Hesitating, Megatron placed the probe under his own glossa. It _was_ rather rough and bothersome. Cut by hand from some random piece of metal, it was far from smooth, even with the more delicate components arranged inside. That the damned thing even worked was further proof of Junkion ingenuity.

It wouldn’t have surprised Megatron to learn that Wreck-Gar had been building these little devices and toys himself, had he cared to think about his defeated foe. He didn’t though, and the little probe worked, which was all that mattered.

Now if he could just convince Prime this was a good thing. Megatron tried again, but other than a pulsing, spilling spike dripping with cybertonium, Prime didn’t want anything in his intakes. He refused all further efforts, spitting the device out over and over again.

Megatron frowned in irritation. _Fine, then. Perhaps another approach._

Prime had other ports after all, but he shied away from using the manual fueling port. If the thermometer fell inside the tubing, it would be quite the task to fish it back out, and it was the same for any of Prime’s ventral and dorsal vents. Even the medical port was too shallow for the device, which left only one other option…

“Oh, you are going to _hate me_ for this,” Megatron muttered.

Hesitating, Megatron looked down at himself, down at his plating. Just thrusting the slender thing into Prime's valve would be damned rude, especially with how rough the surface was to the touch. But he was already clear of lubricants thanks to their interfacing and the heated air around them. _Months of excess lubricants and then_ – _of course_ – _when I need some there is none at hand._

Megatron opened his interface panel to check and see if any little drabbles might be collected to help. His spikehead did feel a little wet, and sure enough, a few tiny beads of lubricant were welling up within the slit, though the little droplets were drying almost immediately in the hot air.

_Ugh … am I really going to do this?_

Then Megatron’s optics caught on his counterpart, and he watched Prime squirm.

Now that Prime was no longer under assault by well-meaning but very aggravating warlords, he started chuffing against the miserable air. He especially didn’t like the feel of the hot air flowing down his vents. He wriggled around and pushed his intakes against and then _into_ the cracks of Megatron’s plating. It was obvious that he was trying to find some pocket of cooler air to breathe. But there was none – only blistering hot air – and after a few moments of discomfort he stopped ventilating entirely.

Watching that with softening eyes, Megatron knew the answer to that question was yes. _If I am going to force this into Prime, the least I can do is make it as comfortable as possible._ He was not so squeamish to avoid enduring some discomfort. Too bad Prime was so far gone to even notice.

 _You won’t even appreciate this,_ and Megatron was only a _little_ cross over it and then bent to task. He stroked his spike until his lubricants began beading in earnest. Then he treated the thin thermometer as almost a sounding rod; dipping the thin probe into his spike slit with a wince, coaxing it inside to coat it with his rich lubricants. The feel of the thing was rather rough, until he coated it in his lubricant to the point that the coarseness was negligible.

The feel of the thing sliding down inside him wasn't nearly as intense as the Quintesson probe had been. This little touch felt far better though, more because he was free and this little invasion was by his choice.

Another few inches and his spike was pulsing approval and he found the slide up his transfluid line more and more arousing. He pulled the rod out before overload could overtake him, though. He reminded himself he was doing this for a reason. This was no indulgent self-play.

Then he leaned over and ran a finger over Prime's clenched port and traced down to the lowest part. His fingers located the tiny entry point of a cycled down and resting valve. After a bit of gentle petting, the sleek port opened a trace and he carefully slipped the device within Prime, pleased for the slick glide.

Adjusting his hips a little, Prime twitched just the slightest bit for the little touch inside. Megatron smiled a trace when he saw him relax when there was no further sensation. Then Prime went back to dozing when the moments passed and it seemed his mouth and valve were no longer under threat.

The readout in the corner of Megatron’s HUD started blinking temperature and other basic data at him, and he relaxed. Prime was too hot, but not too dangerous yet. He was merely uncomfortable, not in danger of deactivation.

"Time to see if my little plan will be sufficient," Megatron said to the now unconscious Prime.

 He set an alarm for the more dangerous ranges, and then wrapped Prime’s helm up in the thermal blanket, taking care with his sensitive audials. One more layer of thermal blankets saw Prime disappear almost completely, fully wrapped up and protected. He was hopeful the coolness from the gel would help cool off the trapped air inside a bit. That seemed to be the case, and he was relieved to watch in his HUD readout as Prime's temperature dropped even further.

Good enough, for now.

Megatron glanced at his chronometer with a small frown. It was well past the point he himself should be recharging. He joined Prime on the berth a moment later, wanting Prime as close as possible, in case swift action was needed. He carefully arranged the mummy-Prime so he was flat on his back with his head pillowed on the span of Megatron’s lower abdominals. Then he nestled the rest of Prime between his stretched out legs. He pressed in pillows made from clean rags into all the sore places, adjusting and re-adjusting as needed. It took a bit of effort, but eventually his counterpart’s fields reflected only woozy comfort.

Settling back, Megatron released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. These next few days promised to be interesting, if not harrowing.

Then there was the tiniest touch at his hand, the tip of a blue audial brushing his fingers. It came again, seeming insistent, and he stroked along the sensitive metal, reassuring Prime that yes, he was still here, and yes, everything was fine.

It seemed enough, and then he too relaxed, following after Prime as he drifted into something more resembling a natural sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Curious,” Soundwave mumbled.

At his feet, Ravage tensed and hopped up onto the console, balancing between the keys with a cat's grace. “More Quint scout ships?”

The Quintesson had chased them off course multiple times already. Entering intergalactic space in a Cybertronian shuttle wasn't the wisest course of action.

Necessary, yes, but not the least bit wise. Thus Soundwave was taking greater care to remain undetected. His caution was making the journey much longer then he wished; they were still quite a ways out from Uytis.

“Negative,” Soundwave answered. He squinted at the communications console, which was now blinking back at him, and explained, “Number of correspondence requests from Autobot flagship; unusual.”

And now he’d just received a terse inquiry for more information on Quintesson movements. This was the third request to come from the Lost Light in as many days.

Normal interactions with the Autobot flagship were like pulling denta with red-hot pliers. It was a chore Soundwave rather disliked. But these last few days something had changed. Information had been flowing unimpeded from the Lost Light _–_ with everything signed off by Rodimus.

Soundwave stared at the signature on the latest update. He quirked a brow-ridge, almost disappointed at the lack of frowny-face doodles and other obscene insults (the imaginative stick figure doodles of Rodimus kicking him in the aft were his favorite though he wouldn’t admit it). Now and as of late, Rodimus was signing everything with a crisp, elegant sig-mark.

_Peculiar._

Even more curious was the updates themselves. They were so startling that at first Soundwave refused to believe them. The newest files showed raid after successful raid, successful sorties against the Quintesson currently occupying Cybertron, all accomplished fleet-wide and orchestrated by Rodimus himself.

There were little or no mentions of rescues, unfortunately. The enslaved Cybertronians were too far within Quintesson space for that. But the first real strikes against the Quints had landed at last, and the Resistance was gaining momentum.

Exciting news, but also interesting was the lack of certain elements within the updates. There wasn’t a single instance of shenaniganry worth mentioning. No random invasions from multidimensional beings or catastrophic near collapses of space-time. No near destruction of all known reality - only defeated by the Lost Light crew at the last possible instant.

Instead, the reports showed unerring competency in running a guerilla movement against the Quintesson. While it was true that progress could only be measured in microns against such a powerful, well-funded foe, that wasn’t the point. The point was… _they were making progress._

This was not to say that Rodimus was incompetent; far from it. Any attacks Rodimus led himself were generally successful, however flamboyant and impractical the means. As a lone wolf or a small squad commander, he was exemplary. As glorious leader of an over-arching and scattered movement of freedom fighters, he was a complete disaster. It was as if he was allergic to the intense, daily grind of true responsibility.

Thus Soundwave was initially skeptical, but after scrutinizing the reports against his stolen correspondence from the Quintesson, he was surprised to find that everything checked out. The Quintesson were especially peeved over the counter attacks. Their tentacle waving and distressed internal reports were music to his audials.

Now he was looking at an emergency meeting request, watching the steady and insistent blinking.

_So very unusual._

Soundwave’s finger hovered over the accept button. He didn’t want to talk to Rodimus, but curiosity was getting the better of him. He tapped the key, and to his surprise Rodimus responded an instant later. His vid display filled to overflowing with crimson hues and flashy flame-paint and bright blue optics, sans the normal cocky grin.

“Ah, Soundwave. Just the mech I wanted to see,” Rodimus greeted him without preamble. “We received your latest updates on troop movements, but some of the data is corrupt or missing.”

“Infiltration efforts: interrupted.” Soundwave said.

No need to explain that the interruption had been from the twins wrestling around and knocking over his daily cup of energon and shorting out his work station… all within kliks of him agreeing to give them _one last chance_ to behave themselves. Even now they were back in his dock, smelling of wasted energon and burnt wires and _whining_.

Rodimus looked displeased, and seemed right at the cusp of saying something, and then bit his glossa instead. “Unfortunate. The missing schedules would have been of great use for our next sortie.”

Behind his concealing visor, Soundwave stared in rapt fascination at the deathly serious expression on Rodimus’ face … _what in the name of Primus is going on here?_

Everything about Rodimus defied belief, actually. He was sitting forward in his chair, not half-flopped over the side or with his pede-heels drumming on the display. His posture was straight and attentive. His arrogant expression was set off by his intense eyes, his lips curled ever so slightly to reveal sharp denta.

Soundwave could see mechs scurrying here and there behind Rodimus. He could see their eager expressions, how they held their shoulders straight, and how they moved with military zeal. Further in the background, someone was droning information; sightings of Quintesson vessels in various quadrants.

“Further data; irretrievable,” Soundwave said, watching as Rodimus glanced from right to left and Soundwave suspected he wasn’t the only one with an active comm link to Rodimus.

“Don’t call me _Prime!”_ Rodimus confirmed Soundwave's suspicions when he turned and snapped in a regal fury at one of his subordinates on another screen. “I don’t want to _hear_ that word from your vocalizer again. This is your only warning, Springer.”

Then Rodimus turned back to Soundwave without missing a beat. Barking a short, mocking laugh he said, “I expected better of you, Soundwave.”

Soundwave bristled for the tone. He wasn’t taking that from Rodimus, of all mechs! “Quintesson data centers difficult to infiltrate from remote locations. Current mission takes priority.”

“Captain,” Ultra Magnus was asking in the background, “I need your signature for the upcoming separation orders and fuel reallocation forms for our ships–”

Frowning at Soundwave, Rodimus lifted a finger - _one moment_ \- and then reached for Magnus' data pads. “Arranged alphabetically, I presume?”

“Of course, sir,” Ultra Magnus said, sounding almost giddy. “I also took the liberty to arrange them in time-indexed piles according to your upcoming meetings - with cancellation tabs in case something comes up - and I will be monitoring your requests from your office as I am still sanding off your…ahem… artistry from your desk.”

“Excellent,” Rodimus said. “At least _someone_ is useful on this sorry excuse for a ship.”

Soundwave was never more grateful of his face mask. His intakes were hanging open in sheer amazement. They stayed open as he watched Rodimus accept the data-file and then sign off on the release form, handing it back to a thrilled Ultra Magnus.

“Yes, Soundwave, I know how difficult espionage is,” Rodimus returned his attention back to Soundwave while he waved away the justification.

Then Rodimus' voice lowered an octave. “You have located your pit-spawned _glitch_ of a leader. I wasn’t surprised to learn that he’s laying down on the job, resting on some _resort_ _world_ while the rest of us _struggle_ to free Cybertron from Quintesson oppression.”

Soundwave blinked at that. Where the hell did _that_ come from? “Lord Megatron has escaped Quintesson capti–”

“Escaped?” Rodimus shrieked, reaching a rather surprising decibel range for such a mid-level vocalizer. “Escaped is a strong word, Soundwave!”

“Lord Megatron’s situation; irrelevant. His recovery is a Decepticon matter that will be attended without Autobot interference. Lord Megatron will be restored to leadership over the Decepticons,” and Soundwave said the last as if it was a foregone conclusion.

At least the sudden scowl that crossed Rodimus’ face made a little more sense (as nothing else he’d done of late did). Soundwave knew Rodimus hated Megatron for obvious reasons, a common attitude among Autobots.

“Whatever,” Rodimus sniffed, now looking pensive.

Then he recovered himself, and sat back with a sudden grin. “Oh, and Soundwave,” Rodimus purred, “You might want to hide all those sparkling toys. I can see them quite clearly from here.”

Soundwave didn’t move an iota. “Cat toys for Ravage beneath concern; function: boredom alleviation.”

Beneath him, Ravage growled, most displeased to be tossed under the bus … he didn’t play with toys! ... not where mechs could see him, anyway.

“Oh, _of course_ , Soundwave. My mistake.” It was clear that Rodimus didn’t believe Soundwave’s explanation for one instant, but it seemed he had better things to do then argue. “Rodimus, out.”

The flashy mech disappeared from the display screen, leaving Soundwave feeling confused and suspicious. Those vocal patterns were _damned_ familiar.

Inside his cassette deck, Rumble asked, “Did that seem weird to you? It’s just, I’d swear to Primus I’ve heard that voice before. I mean, not the voice, but the way he was–”

Frenzy broke in, “–sounded almost exactly like–”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave rumbled.

Soundwave recognized that particular inflection too. It was impossible. The mech Rodimus seemed to be mimicking his speech patterns after was dead as per meticulous Quintesson records. Records that including visual confirmation scans of Starscream’s body dumped into a smelter. It was a matter of public record now, in so much as Soundwave had uncovered those records among other stolen information from the Quintesson.

Soundwave did not grieve for Starscream, but he did grieve that his colleague’s end had come at the tentacles of the Quintesson. Starscream deserved better, and the Quints had much to answer for.

Across Soundwave’s lap, Bob was alternatively snoring and drooling, and Soundwave patted him absentmindedly, to the tune of Ravage’s sub-vocal growls.

“A curious development,” and Soundwave pondered the mystery for a moment and then made a dismissive motion with his servo. “However, results: unquestionable. Rodimus has made excellent progress, whatever the impetus.”

“Yeah, but _–_ ”

“A story for another day,” Soundwave said, and let it go. After all, amongst the Decepticons, only results mattered.

 

* * *

 

It was later in that same day cycle and a restless Thundercracker was sitting next to Mixmaster, having replaced Skywarp for guard duty.  They were in the furthest reaches of the Bailiwick, and he was making good use of the time.

The quiet darkness was excellent for prose. Purple prose, the humans called it. Whatever the hell _that_ meant. Humans could be _so_ weird sometimes. Still, he was serious about his craft, and made sure to work in the word 'purple' at every opportunity, just to be on the safe side.

The words were flowing easily now. His muse was in full attendance and he stared off into space with distant, unfocused optics. Having discovered his wont for writing, some of his Armada would have recognized his current expression.

"You do _too_ have a writing face," Skywarp had insisted while the rest of the Armada backed him up by staring nervously at anything but their Air Commander's face and edging away as hard as they could possibly edge.

He did _not_ have a writing face.

_Click._

"You don't have to stick around and keep me company if you don't want to," and Mixmaster's tone was a touch self-depreciating. He was enjoying the quiet company though, and he'd have been hurt to learn the truth. Fortunately, his current companion was far too diplomatic – and far too distracted – to destroy him like that.

"It's fine," Thundercracker shrugged and his optics unfocused again. He was having trouble with this latest chapter. Skylander Warptastic was begging the main protagonist for forgiveness for all the stupid ways he'd affected the plot. Heartfelt remorse and shameless begging were _so_ hard to get right. There was a lot of exposition and TC was struggling to get the tone just right.

"So," Mixmaster broached a subject that was gnawing at him now that Prowl was back. "What did you think of my idea?"

Thundercracker winced, but there was only one answer to that question. "Sorry, but it won't work. We can't take the carrying mechs out for the entire night cycle. We really shouldn't take them out at all, and some of them need to stay inside. It's just two of them that need immediate care."

"The Air Commander is correct," Hook called from the far corner where he was working on a curious little project. His team mate hardly needed his professional opinion on the subject, but he _so_ enjoyed giving bad news. Count him in for any opportunity to grind in the unhappiness.

So it was with the smuggest of tones that Hook continued, "They have to stay inside, so _you_ have to stay in vehicle mode. It's just _too bad_ about that, really. Prowl is going to be _so happy_ when I am finished. He might even want to _celebrate_ and isn't it just a _shame_ that you will have to remain here." 

Mixmaster whined low in his throat.

Whatever questionable thing Hook was up to, Mix couldn't care less. But it was a sure bet that Prowl would want to wander around come the evening's cooler temperatures. Mixmaster wanted to stay close, but it seemed he was to be stuck here baby-sitting Autobots (while being baby-sat in turn by the nervous Armada).

It wasn't fair.

“So we are only taking the two out tonight,” Thundercracker continued and patted Mixmaster on his side in a comforting gesture. He chose to ignore Hook's nasty blathering as that wasn't his barrel of small furry primates to manage.

No, wait. Barrel of monkeys. That's what they called it. Thundercracker shook his helm to himself. Humans. _So weird._

Thundercracker was playing at being friendly, but in truth he was just keeping an optic on things. It wasn’t like they didn’t trust a fellow Decepticon with the carrying mechs; it was just they didn’t trust any of the Constructicons with the carrying mechs.

Prowl excluded, for obvious reasons.

“The medic – his name is Ratchet – must have miscarried, so he’s staying inside. Skywarp tells me he recently tended the other two, so that leaves the stabby one – his name is Jazz – and Ion Storm’s mech, a ground vehicle. Ion Storm is worried he's low on macro-metals."

Which was a damned lie, but no way in the Pit was Thundercracker going to be able to keep the Rainmakers away from Sideswipe. Or Sunstreaker, for that matter. Sideswipe was all any of them were talking about and Acid Storm and Nova Storm were still trying to convince Ion Storm to share him. Especially after the disaster that was Jazz.

“That’s the one with the back latches,” Mixmaster said, remembering how the Rainmakers had acted around Sideswipe, remembered all those flirting wings. “A grounder.”

Mixmaster had picked up on the hidden inflection in Thundercracker’s voice. It amused him to see the high and mighty Armada chasing after _grounders_.

Thundercracker just shrugged and owned that as the observation was entirely true. Air frames (particularly Vosian jets) held a reputation for snubbing ground frames, a form of alt mode racism that persisted to this day. Yes, he was as guilty of snobbery just as much as the others and he would be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that it did bother him a little. But the guardian coding was helping greatly with that inclination to be so standoffish.

However amused, Mixmaster was careful to keep his voice low; Prowl was still sound asleep in his cab.

“You could leave ‘the grounders’ to us,” Scavenger called out from a few cells down. He'd claimed an entire cell to work on the large and overly complicated air conditioning unit, and was listening in on the conversation. “We’ll fill their gestation tanks for them and they won’t even have to beg for it.”

“Indeed.” Hook was doing a poor job of hiding his rather dark enthusiasm for the suggestion. "I'd even agree to handle the _stabby one_ as you so charmingly called him. I would be delighted to be of service."

Thundercracker ignored the offer. “What is that?” He deflected instead, flicking a wing at Hook’s little project.

“A present,” Hook said with a feral grin, “For Prowl.”

“But what _is_ it?” Thundercracker stared at the crude headset taking shape under Hook's talented fingers.

"Something I cobbled together from the head of one of the Ammonites," Hook said, sounding distracted. He tapped at the device, checked something against the scanner readout in his HUD, and seemed pleased with the results.

"I hadn't realized they died," Thundercracker said. He was very curious now for Hook's little project. It looked technical and complicated and fascinating.

"They were delicious," Hook smirked, and then closed up the little device. He walked towards Mixmaster's cab and rapped at the window with callous knuckles.

“You are going to wake him up,” Mixmaster complained. He was growing irritated for his rattling windows. Prowl’s door-wings twitched every time the noise level disturbed him and they were all but flapping now.

“Quiet, ingrate!” Hook snapped. “He wants to wake up for this, believe me.”

Hook wasn't kidding. The instant the headset slipped over Prowl's suspicious helm, everything changed for him. At first his face scrunched in discomfort and he almost ripped the headset off, but Hook took hold of him and demanded patience. Moments later and Prowl was rewarded with a glorious rush of information.

"This ... this is ... words ... can I can I can I can ... speak ... words, some kind ... of ... delay. Words ... some words are confusing but ... and there is some kind of delay, but it is manageable and now ... I can understand! I can speak!"

Thundercracker stood up and stared in amazement. "That's incredible, Hook."

"Yes," Hook agreed. "It's just a present, as the real repairs will have to be at a medical facility, but this should make day to day life a little more bearable. At least until we can get back to civilization."

All in all, Prowl was beyond happy with his present. He actually leaned forward and hugged Hook, to the surgeon's intense joy and Mixmaster's intense jealousy.

Then a little tugging match ensued when Hook tried to take the little device back from Prowl to keep working on it.

Prowl had undergone the healing sleep already and no longer suffered from the sense of a gaping black hole in his mind. Neural networks rerouted, he was no longer tormented by that loss. But once reacquainted with language, Prowl was unwilling to part with the written and spoken word.

Prowl set his feet and tugged with all his remaining might. "Cease and desist _at once_."

“I am still tweaking it,” Hook insisted, trying to pry Prowl's fingers from around the headset. “It wants to convert everything to the Ammonite’s language module, not Cybertronian. I've patched up the codex, but the damned thing still likes to randomly reset. I need to keep working on it.”

"I ... will make due," Prowl insisted, door-wings shivering with excitement and anxiety. "We ... have _so much_ to discuss."

"That is true," Hook agreed, prying lose another finger even as Prowl re-wrapped his digits around the headset. "Things aren't as straightforward as you currently believe and what you want us to do ... we can't do it. But I still have to work on this before I can approve it for daily use."

"I insist," and Prowl's door-wings flared in threat. His belly was a little more pronounced the before, and even while mid-dogfight, Hook was extremely careful with Prowl.

"It's still daytime," Thundercracker interjected, ever the diplomat. "Look Prowl, you are starting to shake, and that's not all from happiness. It would make sense to get back into Mixmaster's cab for the rest of the day and sleep. In the meantime, Hook can work on your present."

Prowl made an unhappy noise, but his wings dropped in defeat. He couldn't argue with the logic, now that it was returned to him. Even then, Hook _still_ had to wrestle the device from the last of Prowl’s possessive fingers.

Finally Prowl and the device parted ways, and he crawled back into Mixmaster's cab and settled down to rest.

“He looks so happy,” Mixmaster cooed.

And Prowl _was_ happy. So very happy, and even after returning to the safety of his team-mate's embrace, even after cooling off, Prowl's door-wings still trembled, and his electromagnetic fields were filled with anticipation and relief.

...

Sunset and the start of the night cycle (the inmate’s new concept of ‘day’) was only a few hours away when Megatron stirred.

Prime’s temperature alarm was going off and Megatron sat up in a hurry. Prime was quiet under his wrappings, but the soft huffs of struggling vents were still audible.

Megatron unwrapped his counterpart in a hurry, prepared to reapply the gel, but thought better of it. He hefted Prime up and took him into the shower instead.

Megatron turned the crude handle and (relatively) cooler fluid began to cascade over them. The tub had yet to be relocated from Megatron’s old cell room, and so the shower would have to do. He held Prime under the gushing fluid, enjoying the coolness just as much as his berth mate was.

Prime’s ventilations calmed, and Megatron realized they still had some time to go before dusk and the return of safer temperatures. _Perhaps I should keep him in the shower for now,_ he thought and cast around for something to sit on.

 _As much as I desire him to myself, this is far from ideal,_ and Megatron frowned as he kicked a small stool into position. _He really should be in the drum with the others._

Even with the thermal blankets and cooling gel, keeping Prime with him and outside the drum was dangerous. It was well past late afternoon and even _he_ was uncomfortable. Their room was cooler for being deeper in the cave, but now that the air conditioning unit was offline the days were becoming incrementally worse.

Eventually there would be no shelter at all, and Prime would be deactivated for the heat. Megatron could only hope Scavenger completed his repairs before then. For now though, the cooling fluid helped enormously.

Megatron had just plunked down on the stool for the duration when Prime finally won his fight with his own mind, and then the battle _really_ began.

…

Sense and sensibility returned to Optimus Prime to the tune of his slowly dropping temperature.

He awoke to the less than welcoming sight of black and gray blurry blotches. The enclosed space left much to be desired. He was almost thankful he couldn't see any details of the musty walls and floor around him. Everything hinted of past foulness, like a long-messy place just recently cleared of ruin.

His head was leaning back on a heavy shoulder, the support offered both intimate and familiar. He could feel a strong frame at his back, could feel plated arms around him, holding him steady and under the spray. Also familiar were the large hands upon him. They were feeling over every micron of his frame, checking over his older injuries, probably for infection.

_Megatron._

Optimus’ temperature continued to drop and he began processing normally. The rush of mental clarity had him staring up at that frustrating blur, trying and failing to focus on Megatron's face. He wasn't surprised to find himself in Megatron's custody ... captivity of various sorts seemed to be his fate as of late.

It didn't help Optimus' mood that the comforting scent that oft dulled his harsher responses was faint and growing fainter; the pheromone markers were washing away in the fluid cascading over them both. With that loss, all trace of artificial digital-chemical bonds of trust faded away.

Worse, Optimus could see no sign of his Autobots. Recovering his vulnerable friends became his driving focus.

First things first, though.

Optimus could feel Megatron all around him, could smell Megatron on his frame, and intimacy seemed to be growing stronger and stronger between them every time he awoke to find himself in Megatron’s custody.

It was clear he needed to lay down some boundaries, right here and right now.

Pulling his helm off Megatron's shoulder, Optimus half-twisted around with some difficulty and confronted Megatron a firm rumble. His inability to see Megatron's expression frustrated him. This would be far easier if he could get some sense of the mind-state behind him.

 _Let me up,_ Optimus would have demanded if he could, and he tried to pull free from the confining arms to get to his feet. He wanted to face Megatron properly and state his demands, of which he had many. But the arms around him only tightened in response. Instead of letting him up, Megatron pulled him closer, and in doing so explained exactly who was in charge right now.

Optimus wasn’t about to let _that_ stand, and then Megatron spoke. "Settle down and rest, Prime. This little interlude will only last as long as you stay under the fluid. Once night comes we can try to come to an accord, but right now thrashing around will only make things worse for the both of us."

Optimus caught the gist of that command through the inflection in Megatron’s voice. He recognized the presumption of authority and he had no intention of obeying; no intention of holding still and being quiet.

More than anything, he wanted his Autobots!

Now Megatron was murmuring in his audial. His words carried a conversational tone, and his electromagnetic fields were pulsing satisfaction and comfort. He seemed to want a calmer interaction, but those incomprehensible noises didn't answer any of his questions, and without reassurance that his mechs were alright, it wasn't enough to soothe him.

_Where are they?_

_..._

"You want your Autobots," Megatron guessed.

Prime was putting up a fight. It wasn’t unsurprising, but he wasn’t willing to put up with any trouble today. It was too hot, and he was on a strict schedule until the air conditioning was repaired; keep Prime clean and fueled and in berth with as much cooling gel and thermal blankets as could be managed while watching his temperature like a hawk.

Megatron had a few other options at hand to try and keep things cooler, but he was trying to allow Optimus as much dignity as possible.

But Prime was trying hard to put up a fight, and it wasn't hard to figure out what he wanted. The only thing he would demand with such ferocity was his precious Autobots.

“They are safe, Prime,” Megatron began the soothing noise. “Safer than even _you_ are right now.” Of course that didn’t satisfy Prime; he understood none of it. Megatron couldn't answer Prime’s questions, though it was no fault of his own.

Megatron leaned close and shook his helm. “We are staying here for now. It is too hot outside.” They didn't dare leave the shelter of this room anymore, not until sunset.

Not to mention disturbing the sleeping Autobots, still clicking and chirping so happily within the drum. He could hear them over the comms on a dedicated channel – Thundercracker was spending the rest of the sleep cycle resting against Mixmaster’s rigging (after all the crazed giggling he couldn’t blame the jet for being cautious) and he was transmitting the audio over the comms for the rest of the Armada.

“At dusk, Prime,” Megatron tried to promise. “I will take you to them when the sun goes down and it is safer for you to move around.”

Megatron knew his dismissive gesture wouldn't satisfy, and so he wasn't surprised when Optimus Prime declared war without further preamble. What _did_ surprise him was how quickly Prime had learned to put the extra weight on his front to good use.

...

_Yield._

Harsh engine rumbles made Optimus' demands perfectly clear. His electromagnetic fields thrummed satisfaction for the outcome of their vicious (entirely one-sided) wrestling match. He readjusted his hold on Megatron's wrists, making sure the bulk of his weight remained in play.

They were still under the spray, but their positions were quite reversed. Now it was Megatron who was held fast, pinned to the ground and flat on his back. The entirety of Optimus Prime's weight was sat atop his cockpit, keeping him down.

 _Yield,_ Optimus demanded, communicating that demand with fierce engine surges and the tight way he squeezed Megatron’s wrists.

“I’m not taking this laying down, Prime!” Megatron called cheerily from his prone position across the ground. Then he leaned forward until they were face to fac– well, no, actually. There was no way. In fact, Megatron couldn’t even _see_ Optimus’ face in the slightest, nor the angry blue-eyeshine ... too much belly in the way.

Fully enjoying the physical nature of their play, Megatron addressed said roundness with all the aggression he could muster while trying to keep from chortling. " _Never_ , Prime!"

Another growl from Optimus – _that didn't sound like an acceptable answer_ – and his belly and bare array slid a little closer as he struggled to keep his balance while delivering another threatening _whack_ … and now both parts of him, belly and array, were tantalizingly close to Megatron's intakes.

_Hmm. Decisions, decisions._

Ah, wait. Optimus was still expecting a reply, and Megatron grinned up at him, "One shall stand and one shall–"

 _Don't you dare,_ Optimus growled at him, disliking the grandstanding tones.  _You are defeated. I am triumphant. No games! Now give me my Autobots!_

Beside himself with mirth, Megatron bent his knees and braced his powerful pedes, but he made no attempt to throw Optimus off him. He propped his lower frame up a little higher, further encouraging Optimus’ slide towards his face.

"Alright then," Megatron grinned back, "You didn't seem impressed with that one. So how about, 'freedom is the right of all sent–"

Another _thwack_ and another inch and now Optimus’ tender bits were mere microns from Megatron’s face.

_I said no games!_

Intimidating as hard as he could intimidate, Optimus was finding his results rather questionable. Even for his prone position on the floor, Megatron seemed fully at ease and the crackle of charge beneath his intimate panels suggested he found their furious wrestling match and current standoff most enjoyable. Too dignified to react to that, Optimus ignored the playful surges from the armature beneath him. He hadn't intended to engage Megatron in this way. He also knew that his current perch was precarious, and he hurried to try and take control.

Optimus leaned further forward, lifted and slammed Megatron's arms down against the ground. His unbalanced front caused his aft to slide forward again – he heard Megatron make a pleased sound which was suspect – but the bulk of his weight remained across Megatron's chest.

His threat was clear, and not for the first time did he wish he could see properly. The feel of Megatron beneath him was as far from intimidated as possible. But otherwise he stayed quiet and Optimus managed to wiggle around and lean over enough to get decently close to some of Megatron’s face (almost upside down but it couldn’t be helped, damn it) and he curled his lip, exposing smooth denta in a harsh snarl and used his utmost intimidating of glowers.

_This is not a game. I want my Autobots! Now yield, damn you!_

Of course he’d been forced to twist his helm to the side to try and make eye contact with Megatron, and he did catch sight of a bit of red eye-shine from below and … wait, was he chuckling? Was he actually … no, of course not. Nothing about this situation was amusing in the slightest.

Staring down his ancient enemy, Megatron had to strangle back his joviality – he could tell Optimus was deathly serious – and then relaxed back, knocking his helm back to the ground with a _clunk_ to force himself to focus.

Optimus Prime may have won this battle on a technicality, but Megatron still had his eye on the war. He rolled his shoulders and jutted his chest out and Prime's aft slid further down, bringing that bare array even closer.

Then Megatron grinned up at him and went right back to his flirting. He started rumbling his engine and Optimus looked down in surprise when the vibrations hit his array. Noisy rumble-threats assured Megatron that he was hitting all the good spots.

 _Ooh, but that feels good,_ was the gist of the startled tonal pitch, and then Optimus checked himself. _Absolutely not. We are not doing this._

Megatron licked him then, the slick touch entirely unexpected, and it was a nice, long swipe up his folds. Startled, Optimus chirped and rolled off by mistake, curling around to grapple with Megatron in the same instant, and then the battle was back on.

They wrestled and once again, he was able to pin Megatron down. He was clear enough of mind now to understand how that might be and why, and chose to play that little game, as it ended with him in a position of seeming power.

And Megatron was threatening his intimate ports again. It did feel good, but it was not what Optimus wanted. He made that clear with a low engine growl, but Megatron wasn't listening. He was too busy lavishing attention on the closest of Optimus' two intimate ports.

Optimus winced a little when his valve instinctively clenched down around that slick appendage. Beyond his traitorously happy valve, Optimus couldn't help but feel his spike pressurizing. That port was soon under threat as well, and he rumbled his frustration, intermixed with the slow-growing interest he couldn't keep out of his fields. He knew that - through them - Megatron would sense how much he enjoyed being touched there. He couldn't help it, and he squirmed for that slick glossa teasing within him and rumbled through the warm, pleasing surges of charge.

 _This is not yielding,_ he scowled and he couldn't see Megatron's face and it frustrated him.

"I'm sorry," Megatron said to him, still prone on the floor, "But we are not leaving this room. Not until dusk. Now if you are intending to sit on my face – not that I am complaining! – can you truly hold me responsible for what happens thereafter?"

Yes, was the answer to that question.

Yes, he _definitely_ would and Optimus was doing just that. He was frustrated that Megatron was not taking him seriously, but he was unsure how best to deal with it. Trying and failing to consider his options for his lack of words, he definitely wasn't just sitting there and enjoying it. Certainly he didn't let Megatron pull him down a little closer to those extremely pleasing lips.

Megatron could tell how contrary his counterpart was feeling, and he laughed. "Last chance to get away, for otherwise I am absolutely doing this."

But Optimus did finally wriggle away, and Megatron let him go. As as much as he would have loved to play this out, he could tell Optimus was getting hot and bothered over everything. Optimus kept waving his hand and one extra finger at Megatron, demanding his mechs. But Megatron didn’t yield and Prime grew so very frustrated and even began to punch at his adversary.

"You know that's not going to work," Megatron murmured again, gathering him up and ignoring the fists flying at his frame. "It hasn't worked the last few times you've tried it."

 But Optimus fought so hard that Megatron resorted to binding him (rather loosely, but still). Then Optimus was re-adjusted over and over while he squirmed, demanding freedom, demanding his Autobots, wild with frustration that it seemed he wasn’t understood. He kept staring up at Megatron, frustrated with himself, with his inability to read his old enemy.

His struggles finally ended when Megatron wrapped him back up in the thermal blankets after re-coating him in gel. Then gentle fingers touched him down below and his unhappiness increased exponentially.

Optimus clicked in warning – _the hell are you doing_? – and Megatron showed him something, a blurry thing that only came into focus when it was mere microns from his nasal sensor.

_What is that?_

Some sort of thermometer. _No, thank you._

“We have already had this conversation,” Megatron said, “And you lost yesterday as well. Try to relax. I’m not hurting you.” He recoated the little device for comfort while Optimus blinked, unable to follow the motions for the blurriness, but so very suspicious.

To Optimus’ intense displeasure the little device was inserted despite his protests. To be fair, it was absolutely tiny. His valve didn’t even register the intruder beyond the merest little twitch for the brief touch. His sensitive internals relaxed almost immediately when the device was placed and didn’t move. He knew it was there though and tried to clench around it, but even cycled to its smallest setting he couldn’t really feel it.

Megatron seemed unconcerned and his movements remained calm and non-threatening. It was clear to Optimus that he wasn't expecting anything exciting to come of the little device. Then Megatron tapped his helm, pointed at it and back at himself and it wasn’t too hard to catch the meaning there; he was monitoring his temperature.

Fuel in the form of some kind of stew was offered, but at this point Optimus was too furious to eat. He spat the fluid back out, even as his tanks lurched in complaint; he could use the nutrition.

That earned him a reaction and Optimus blinked when Megatron snarled something in harsh disapproval. This was the first dark sound he'd heard this entire time. Still blinking, he stared as Megatron leaned forward and grabbed his helm. Stiffening, Optimus was startled when Megatron merely leaned closer and then licked every drop right off his face while holding him still.

“We are not wasting fuel here,” Megatron snapped as he sat back. “Tantrums won’t get you far, not in this hell hole. Now, for the last time, _settle down_.”

Optimus sniffed, and struggled against his soft bindings. Moments later and Megatron was back to the soothing noises, and began adjusting him for comfort. Pillows and rag-blankets were rolled and piled beneath him, and he realized he was to stay here for the time being. Again he rumbled his displeasure, clicking up at Megatron.

“Settle down,” Megatron repeated, and finished wrapping him up in thermal blankets, covering even his helm and hiding his unhappy expression.

...

Distraction.

He needed a distraction to calm his annoyance and his too-interested interface array. <Scavenger, any good news?>

Megatron could use some right now. Prime was being most difficult. There was a burst of static, and then a reply. <Nothing new to report,> Scavenger sounded distracted, <Working on one of the damaged sections now. Another couple of days, still.>

<Are you alright?> Megatron could tell that Scavenger was tense, though not why.

<Hook and Long Haul are arguing. Hook is mad ‘cause he gave Prowl a headset that lets him talk again but didn’t get to wear a leash and Long Haul is mad ‘cause Hook was being nasty to Mixmaster over the comms and->

But Scavenger had lost Megatron at ‘headset that lets him talk’ and he demanded details. Then he demanded the headset be re-allocated for Prime, and Long Haul joined the conversation moments later, prepared to defend Prowl’s right to his words to the death.

It didn’t come to that, but Hook was forced to agree to see if another could be built, assuming they could find and corner the last Ammonite.

Then, after confirming that Scavenger had everything he needed (that could be provided) Megatron cut the connection. He looked down at his unhappy counterpart, who was struggling against the wrappings, thrashing back and forth.

First Prime's audials appeared, peeking out from beneath the thermal blankets mummy-wrapped around him. Finally blue eyes crested the edge of the thermal blanket, glowing suspiciously. Definitely not happy. Now Prime was sitting up in his makeshift bed, still trussed up, body drenched in cooling gel and thermal blankets.

There was no happiness here. None. Megatron sat down next to him with a deep sigh. “Long day, eh, Prime?”

“Click.”

It was a singular noise, filled with accusation all wrapped up in a question; _what in the name of Primus is all this?_

“Saving your life,” Megatron answered, and he had to remind himself that Prime didn’t understand the greater reasons behind what he was doing. He could understand how Prime might view his actions, even the care being offered, as prelude to some plot or plan unfolding that he might not appreciate. He understood what Prime was feeling … this entire situation was every bit as surreal to him as it was to Prime, with the massive exception that he understood what the hell was going on … and knew that his own intentions, however imperfect, were honorable.

Prime had no such assurance, and his optics narrowed a fraction. “Click.” 

_Not happy._

“You want to see your mechs,” Megatron guessed, well aware of what Prime wanted. “I will take you to see them later tonight, as soon as it is cool enough,” he promised.

Megatron smiled at him, smiled at those furious blue optics and that big round belly and his barely visible expression, all trussed up and still so full of threat. “No words describe how you look right now. Be grateful I have nothing to capture this moment with but my memory.”

Prime scowled, greatly disliking the jovial tone. "Click.”

_You better._

...

The star had barely set and Thundercracker authorized Jazz's removal from the drum. He was worried about Jazz and the pitiful state of his gestation tank and wanted to see if there was anything that could be done to help.

“Go ahead and open your drum,” Thundercracker ordered, and Mixmaster flashed his caution lights.

“Hold your zap ponies,” Mixmaster muttered. “I have to override it manually thanks to the Quints messing with my HUD. Takes a minute to do it without disturbing them ‘cause normally my drum retunes and rolls a couple of times before opening. They wouldn’t like that.”

“Take your time,” Thundercracker said. He sounded confidant, but his flicking wings betrayed his nervousness. The last thing he wanted on his servos was a mess of dizzy, hysterical carrying mechs.

A door slam – _wham!_ – from the front of Mixmaster’s armature signaled that Prowl, too, had emerged. He was wearing his headset and seemed much more at ease than before.  He joined the small group of seekers at Mixmaster’s back-end as if he belonged with them.

“Did you ask Jazz if he wants his newspark?” Prowl asked and every set of wings in the place snapped forward in shock.

Thundercracker took a step forward. "They fixed the headset for you?"

“Hook has been most helpful,” Prowl replied. Then he frowned. “It is a legitimate question. Jazz may not want this burden and no one has the right to force him. So again I ask, did anyone think to ask Jazz what he wants?

“Actually,” Thundercracker answered, “I did. Right before we put him into the drum. He seemed like he wanted to keep the protoform. I think the problem is more trauma-based.”

“I may be able to help with that,” Prowl said and stepped away. He walked towards Long Haul, who was approaching with a container of cooling gel.

“I agree to your terms,” Long Haul said. “All of them. And if you want to explore a little further, I'm game. Actually, we are all game.”

“I don’t need more than one of you for–”

“–yeah, about that,” interrupted Long Haul as he handed over some odd-looking straps. “Scavenger made these for you _for us_ right after you asked for help about … that. There is _no fragging way_ the others will stay away for this. They are going to want to watch at the very least, and they want to wear their leashes too.”

_Wharp!_

A cheerful-looking Skywarp appeared out of nowhere, popping up like some sort of demented daisy. “Did someone say leashes?”

Thundercracker scowled. "I gave you an order-"

"–no teleporting except for emergencies," Skywarp repeated, raising his servos in obedient surrender. "Sorry, Thunders, it's just I heard something relevant to my interests–"

"When we are out in public," reminded Thundercracker, who was starting to resemble a storm cloud and Skywarp backed down yet again.

"Sorry sir. Air Commander." Skywarp made a show of coughing _are you happy now_ into his elbow all noisy-like, and yes, it was acceptable – in so much as you couldn't get energon from a stone.

At least Skywarp was making an attempt to be respectful.

Thundercracker accepted his trine mate’s snerk-covered offering with a snort. "And no," he cut Skywarp off at the pass, "We are _not_ putting leashes on the Autobots. And before you ask, the answer to the question you are about to ask me is also no. You may _not_ put them on Perceptor or Wheeljack, even if they are asleep and can't protest."

"Protest?!" Skywarp howled.

"They wouldn't even know! At least not until the pictures got out, and by then I will be far enough away that it won't matter! Primus! You are killing my happy, you know that? Hell, even _Prime_ had one! And the Constructicons are putting one on theirs–"

"One of _them_ is wearing the leash," Prowl flicked a door-wing at his team mates with a mind sniff. "A singular Constructicon wearing a singular leash” – and here Prowl and Long Haul locked optics – “as I asked for _one_ volunteer to put together something that Jazz might be able to tolerate. Also, and for the record, Prime's _tether_ was a _punishment_ for Sideswipe's excessive misbehavior."

“We come as a set,” Long Haul said. “You know that. You can’t ask the others to sit this out. It’s not fair to them.”

“Long Haul,” Mixmaster cried in sheerest upset, “What about me? I want to wear a leash too!”

But Long Haul couldn’t do anything for that, and Mixmaster already knew it, they’d had this conversation not breems ago and the answer was still the same. “I will make it up to you,” he promised with a regretful expression and Mixmaster shook on his tires, beyond upset.

“Don’t worry,” Hook called to Mixmaster and was just about to say something _truly unkind_ when Long Haul rounded in his direction and Hook choked on his schadenfreude before it could cause him to come to harm.

"Wait," Nova Storm said, "Hold up. You are getting one of the Constructicons to wear a leash for Jazz?"

"The thought being," Prowl said patiently, "If he felt he had full control of the situation – and without an excessive audience! – he may be more comfortable with the entire process."

“He can have his pick of us,” Long Haul wheedled, “We’ll even put on a bit of a show for him, and he can choose who he wants and how he wants it done. Any of us would be happy to fill him … for _you_.”

Everyone stared, and the Armada fidgeted. "I don't wear leashes," Skywarp informed the ceiling with an arrogant snort, but no one could hear him over the sound of numerous spikes _thowking_ against closed modesty panels.

"I volunteer," Nova Storm said in a hurry, "For the leash thing. In fact, put me down for _two_ leashes. Does he want me gagged? Would gagging help? Because I'm okay with that, and cuffs... we got cuffs, remember. I am okay with cuffs, everywhere."

Nova Storm's wings were twitching with excitement, and Long Haul was starting to look a little testy. Things were getting out of hand in a hurry. "We could have a draw," Acid Storm suggested.

Thrust nodded agreement, "It would be fairer," and he was already on-board with the idea. He ignored Skywarp's sharp scowl and Thundercracker's uncomfortable pede-shuffling because _frag_ Skywarp's elitist spike that didn't do leashes unless he was holding the business end and _frag_ Thundercracker's racist Vosian upbringing that said flight frames and grounders shouldn’t have kinky fun together because _reasons_. After all, ceilings didn't have needy valves that all but _sucked_ the transfluid out of him, squeezing him like a glove until he was empty as slag, leaving him a satiated pile of jet.

Anyway, this was charity dammit!

"Tournament! We could have a tournament and whoever wins gets to wear the leash–"

"That won't be necessary," Prowl demurred, "This has already been planned–"

“It's none of your damned business,” Long Haul snapped and everyone looked away right quick.

"I want to give my mechs a chance to win him over first," Thundercracker said. "At least before we go and get elaborate with ... leashes and everything. After all, the sooner Jazz gets some help the better."

Prowl nodded his agreement, and the sullen Mixmaster chose that moment to cycle open his drum’s aperture. Sleepy Autobot faces were visible moments later.

Thundercracker stepped forward to greet them, murmuring spark-felt greetings to their new captives-turned-unwitting comrades. He worked his top half into the drum and began checking everyone over, seeing how they had weathered their first night.

Sideswipe and the two scientists seemed most at ease, but the medic was _very_ tense.

Ratchet had a thermal blanket covering his abdominals and was keeping them hidden. Staying as far away from Thundercracker as possible, he kept looking down at his chest. He was extremely protective of whatever was under that blanket. His behavior was curious, but Jazz was Thundercracker's first priority.

Locating the troublesome black and white, Thundercracker realized he had a bit of a problem. Jazz was nestled against the irritable ambulance's side and _he_ was the mech Thundercracker wanted to pull from the drum first. But Ratchet seemed overly protective of him, almost as protective of Jazz as he was of the blanket.

Ratchet's shying away and protective behavior should have tipped TC off that something had happened, but the noisy chatter behind him was too distracting.

Skywarp was pointing at a cheerful Sideswipe over TC's shoulder and said, "Grab Bare-Aft-Wings first-"

Sunstreaker froze in outrage. " _What_ did you just call my brother?!"

"Oh, yeah, grounder, right. I guess you need a dictionary-file or a picture, let me help, it's spelled B-A-R-"

The sound of a vicious fist hitting a mouthy face plate interrupted the impromptu spelling lesson and the fight of the century broke out behind Thundercracker.

Oh Skywarp, where art thy sense of self-preservation ... and Thundercracker held back a groan. He didn't want to worry the Autobots over Skywarp's idiocy and so tuned out the sounds of fighting behind him.

Ratchet, though. He could detect stupid mechs starting stupid fights from miles away, and with a scowl he let fly with his wrench. It went flying out the drum aperture with a vengeance and Thundercracker ducked just in time. Then he heard Skywarp's incredulous yelp and Sunstreaker's wild laughter, and that was the end of that.

"Thank you," Thundercracker grinned at Ratchet, who huffed in reply. He was no stranger to querulous idiots and how best to dissuade them from their sorry ways. The wrench was returned a moment later by Ion Storm, and TC handed it back to Ratchet as a peace offering.

Even so, Ratchet remained standoffish, and was rather incensed to see Thundercracker reach for Jazz. He lifted his wrench and made soft warning noises while Sideswipe just watched, seeming unconcerned with either the blanket or Thundercracker.

"Ease off the stick," Thundercracker said. He offered Ratchet his fingers, leaving them open and wiggling the fingers, all currently free of weapons and threats. Then he reached for Jazz, only to get a soft, bare pede bonked into his face and a wrench waving in more serious threat.

"I'm not going to hurt him," Thundercracker tried again, but Ratchet was so concerned that the spot where his ambulance lights were once wired was sparking.

 _If he still had lights and sirens, they would be flashing,_ Thundercracker realized. _He is really upset and not for the noise. He doesn't want me to take Jazz._

Thundercracker pulled back a bit to re-assess the situation, and then finally noticed the obvious.

"Oh," Thundercracker breathed as he realized (in part) why Ratchet was so keyed up, and he was both alarmed and relieved all at once. He backed off then, to Ratchet's relief.

Jazz was flat.

It became clear that not only did he not need any further help of the physical kind, he was also deep within the embrace of the healing sleep. The problem seemed solved, but - at first glance - in the saddest way possible.

"He's miscarried," Thundercracker said, and there was a chorus of sad noises behind him. He pointed at Jazz, but Ratchet waved him off, insisting that Jazz remain with him, and TC trusted his judgment enough to leave it at that. But there was one other issue, a sad matter of cleanliness.

"There should be a body," Nova Storm whispered. "At this stage."

"Looking now," Thundercracker said, trying not to wince. But there was no body, and then Sideswipe handed him some soaking blankets, and they were also empty.

Then Thundercracker registered the strained, anxious expression on Ratchet's face. And the blanket. And the way Ratchet's left hand was cupping something on his chest plates, and all the little wires from his systems, leading to that little space under Ratchet's oh-so-tenderly curled fingers.

Sideswipe confirmed his suspicions when he pointed at his own belly and then pointed at Ratchet's fingers. There was no grief in his cheery expression, and when Ratchet hissed at him, 'Sides turned and had a little argument with him.

 _They are looking for him,_ Sideswipe waved at Ratchet, who didn't seem to give a rusty screw.

Thundercracker leaned forward, "Can I just ..."

"Oh Primus," Thundercracker whispered when he caught sight of the entirety of the situation and then stared at Ratchet with a new respect. "You are amazing."

"What?" Ion Storm called over his shoulder. "What happened?"

"The newspark is alive ... and I think he's going to make it. Their medic wired him into his systems, long enough that his little dermal plates have hardened."

"Which means...?"

"It means," Ion Storm broke in, "That the little guy is _definitely_ going to make it."

" _Little guy_ is right," Thundercracker murmured, finally catching a good glimpse of the tiny newborn. Just a flash, and he grinned and his wings shot straight up in excitement. "It's a seeker frame! Black and white colors ... no surprise there ... but he's one of _us_!"

"I want to see!" Nova Storm all but shrieked.

But Ratchet was brandishing his wrench like an overprotective bolt-bear at this point. Growing impatient, Sideswipe was trying to climb over Thundercracker's shoulder pauldron while chirping greetings at Ion Storm (wincing inside for the golden frame standing so aggressively beside the blue seeker) and he agreed with Ratchet's nonverbal growling.

Too much noise, too much fuss! "The newborn is too small and new for visitors and Prime's medic is feeling cantankerous … so no. Maybe later," and the last was said as Thundercracker relented a little for all the sad faces.

Meanwhile, Prowl had come up beside him and was peeking in at Jazz. Staring for a long quiet moment, he stepped back and turned away, heading back towards Mixmaster’s cab.

"Wait," Long Haul said, looking alarmed, "We are still doing the leash thing, right?"

Prowl snorted and then turned away. His fingers trailed over Mixmaster’s frame as he walked back toward Mixmaster's cab. The door slammed shut with another _wham_ and not kliks later and Mixmaster gasped. Then he started humming, beside himself with happiness and shocked for the sudden turn of events. Then he made another sound, a rather startled yip and Skywarp dared to peek in the window again.

“You still want to wear a leash?” Skywarp heard Prowl ask, and then watched as the black and white snapped the leash around Mixmaster's spike and tightened it and now Mixmaster was positively _quivering_ on his tires.

"So patient," Prowl murmured while tracing along the bright green spikehead, beset with purple engraving all a-pulse with eagerness and already offering up drabbles of lubricant. A slender fingers curled under that sweet spot, the one where all the sensors were clustered and he continued in a low croon, "So helpful to me and mine … and don’t think for one moment that I don’t remember who it was that stayed with me in the darkness ... shall we see just how obedient you can be...?"

“I can be very obedient,” Mixmaster promised and Prowl smiled down at him and the other Constructicons stared, equally stunned at the turn the day had taken.

Happy fun times cancelled, just like that. "Frag my life," Long Haul grumbled. Hook stormed off in a rage and Scavenger went back to work while looking all distracted (Mixmaster was sending him a live vid feed from his dash cam).

Skywarp was settling down to watch the show, but Mixmaster darkened his windows for some privacy, and other then all the vehicle-frame-trembles there was nothing further to be seen.

 

* * *

 

It was well into the night cycle now, though the temperatures hardly felt it.

Tired of being sequestered away, everyone slowly emerged, and Sunstreaker made a few more friends by further damaging the fluid pipes, so that fluid sprayed down and around areas of the Courtyard.

Staying a little apart from the others, the Junkions seemed back to their normal, dysfunctional selves, playing a variant of a ball game.

Pipes was fuming.

Several Junkions had severed and then scooped up Dirge and Breakdown’s heads and were tossing them back and forth in a parody of some game. They were playing in the lee of the spraying pipes, enjoying the slightly cooler air. Completely oblivious to the unhappiness this was causing, the Junkions continued their play while the former Autobots looked on in disgust.

“You guys don’t have a problem with that?” Pipes called, pointed at the flying heads while the Decepticons glanced at each other and blinked.

_Did they have a problem with that? No? Okay then._

Nautilator shrugged and put into words the apathy that everyone sans the Autobots were feeling. “They are dead. So who cares?”

Pipes wasn’t happy with that answer. “If somebody doesn’t do something, then I’m going to!” They were strong words, but Pipes hesitated and the Decepticons waffled. Everyone was really hot, and no one wanted to scrap with anybody for any reason.

Next to Pipes, Snarl was resting in a dish of trash, having kicked around the dreck until he and Sludge and Slag were nestled in comfortable wallows of softer trash. It was obvious that he was feeling vastly better now that he had his brothers back.

Collar already removed, Slag was ignoring the noise. He was sleeping on his belly, his pedes sticking straight out comically and drooling heavily in his sleep.

Sludge was similarly comfortable, on his side, his long neck curled back, comfortable enough with wet rags wrapped around his battered pedes. Now that his tremendous weight was off his feet, he found the pain much easier to bear.

Pipes was about to complain again, but Long Haul called for him, distracting him from the Junkion’s nasty little game. Apparently it was time for Bluestreak’s appointment, and he was late, just like Hook warned him not to be. Long Haul was giving Pipes a chance to rectify the situation before things grew out of hand, as Bluestreak had already made it clear he had no intention of obeying.

Now Bluestreak could see Pipes talking to Long Haul in the distance, and then Pipes pointed in Blue’s direction.

Okay, now _that_ was not cool.

Then Pipes nodded at Long Haul, and started towards the Dynobot cuddle pile with a firmness in his stride that hadn’t been there before. It was as if he was girding himself for some sort of unpleasant duty…

“Come on Blue,” Pipes tugged on the Datsun’s wing, the topmost parts of said Datsun now burrowing under Sludge’s protective neck and fore-legs. “It’s time for your appointment with Hook. We need to get that slag out of you.”

Bluestreak shook his helm and gestured a refusal in Hand. The truth was that he wanted to keep the mouth-gag. Mechs were far nicer to him when he couldn’t speak and annoy them, and the constant punishment from the Quints meant his psyche had incorporated the gag into his own wellbeing. He wasn’t willing to remove it.

“Rung’s not here to talk you down, Blue,” Pipes mumbled, knowing how much Blue had relied on the psychiatrist's therapy sessions, never missing an appointment. He could see the Datsun’s door wings flick, hinting at a little bit of affront.

_Really now._

Then was a furious row as Pipes fought to drag Bluestreak from between the Dynobots. Pipes understood how Blue felt, he really did…but Bluestreak needed help. He needed help and Pipes was going to see him get that help, even if he had to drag poor Blue to the medi-station by his wings.

“Why you do that?” Sludge asked, unsure if he should be defending his little buddy, but Snarl explained the problem in short enough sentences that he could follow along. “No talk is bad,” Sludge agreed, and Bluestreak groaned when his only backup left him to twist in the wind.

Pipes dragged him a few paces away from the Dynobot cuddle pile and into view of everyone else. “Hey guys!” Acid Storm called out for the other Rainmakers. “It’s that guy!”

Skywarp perked up as he, too, recognized the Autobot gunner. “The sniper that used to be stationed out at Thunderhead Pass? The one that would never shut up?”

“Frag me,” Nova Storm muttered. “I remember you. You blew my thruster off at 12,000 qt. That was _so_ mean. Anyway, throttle down, the Constructicons don’t bite.”

“Don’t say that,” Acid Storm hissed. “They do too bite,” and Nova stared with his wings flicking back in accusation and Acid Storm promptly clammed up and tried to look all innocent but it was _too late_.

Then Pipes stepped forward as Bluestreak hunkered down.

Datsun and Hauler faced off, and someone - it was totally Brawl - starting humming the theme song to _Showdown at the OK Corral_ complete with whistling theme song while Vortex stomped away muttering about stupid team mates and Onslaught scowled at Brawl and no joke, a tumbleweed rolled by – but it was actually just some metal scrap.

Then one of the heads kicked wide, bounced off a cavern wall and flew past Pipes’ helm, and he lost it. “Come on you guys!” Pipes shouted in growing fury for the disrespect, Breakdown especially. He’d died holding the line; died a hero and they were kicking his helm around like he was some kind of-

“Stop it! Just stop it you guys!”

Across from him, Vortex snorted, “Who cares? They’re dead.”  Like most of the rest of the cynical Decepticons, he was completely unmoved.

Pipes ground his denta in frustration and did something he would normally never, never do. He got right up into Vortex’s face plates and explained a few things at the top of his vocalizer (it helped that Snarl and his brothers were only a few steps behind him and the Dynobot’s take-it-or-eat-it attitude was starting to rub off just a little).

Yes, they were surrounded by hell, but that didn’t mean they had to act like animals. _Worse_ than animals! The crowd grew more and more restless as the crass way the Junkions ground in their reality continued to grate until finally Onslaught noticed the commotion and snarled at them to stop.

Watching from across the Commons, Onslaught and Long Haul scowled at the hooting Junkions as Brawl clambered up atop a pile of trash, watching the game with interest.

The Junkions ignored Onslaught’s shouts until he stomped over to break them up before a fight broke out between them and the Autobots. He was surprised when one of the Junkions whined at him about _lunch_.

“No,” Onslaught snapped, “We are _not_ eating them.” He was taken aback when one of the junk-piles started forward and snatched at the helms. Onslaught went slack at the mouth in surprise for the tug of war that resulted when the Junkions realized what he was up to.

“Finger licking good!” One of them shouted in reminder. “Don’t have a cow, man!”

“Because that’s _disgusting_!” Onslaught roared in explanation at the whining trash-pile trying to argue and kicked the Junkion off the body while at the same time contacting Thundercracker over command comms to get out here and deal with these _damned Junkions_ before he–

Brawl tilted his helm quizzically. “Hey Onslaught?”

“What?” Onslaught snapped over his shoulder. He was too distracted with kicking furiously at the Junkions still trying to snatch the helms from him to pay much attention to Brawl. One of the Junkions made a grab for a flopping glossa like a turbohound wanting to play and Onslaught put a boot to that grinning, rust-pocked face and oh yeah and you’d better _back the frag off_ or–

“What did the cannibal do after dumping his Conjunx?”

Helms swung around to glower in Brawl’s general direction and Onslaught cringed while aiming another kick at the Junkions, who still seemed to think this was all just a game. “Now is not the _time_ –”

“He wiped his aft!”

Groans of disbelief broke out across the Commons.

Snarl’s optics flew wide and he opened his mouth to guffaw but caught sight of Pipes’ horrified expression – was nothing sacred anymore?! – and Snarl broke out into a coughing fit instead and desperately buried his muzzle under the trash with _hurrft! hurrft!_ noises.

The Junkions blinked in confusion and Pipes shouted, “Stop making Snarl cry!”

Slag, ousted from his hot dreams of tight spaces, scowled and his muzzle twitched. “Snarl doesn’t cry.”

“Snarl do cry,” the sleepy Sludge disagreed with a slow and lazy swish of his tail. “Remember him see Lost World? Remember baby Rex crying? Him Snarl cry for Daddy Rex rescue.”

“It was dusty!” Snarl howled from under the trash. “I had dust in my optics!”

Thundercracker arrived an instant later, landing amidst the Junkions with roaring turbines. “These were _Cybertronians_. These were _friends_ ,” he snapped, gathering up the heads from a peeved Onslaught with an apologetic glance and officially putting an end to the offensive play. Then he strode away with the heads, ending the game.

“Come on,” Thundercracker yelled over his shoulder at his wayward charges. “If you are bored, I will find something for you to do other than be offensive.” The Junkions glanced at each other, disappointed and confused for the game ending so early. Then one shrugged, and they all started after their new leader.

“Make them clean up the Bailiwick!” Pipes shouted. Feeling better already, he failed to see Bluestreak sneaking away in the chaos.

Mouth clenched around the Quint gag, Bluestreak was making good his escape. Appointment? Aw hell no. They could kiss his shiny metal aft, all of them, and Bluestreak disappeared down into the levels below with furtive wing flicks.

 

* * *

 

Megatron kept his word.

Optimus panicked when he saw Mixmaster sitting in vehicle mode and realized his Autobots were inside. He could hear their soft chirps and clicks, and though they didn't sound unhappy, he still panicked.

_Mixmaster kills mechs in that thing!_

Optimus would’ve shouted it into Megatron’s face if he could, but his roaring engine made his vast displeasure clear regardless. Tired and in a rather testy mood, Megatron gave him a harried – _what more do you want of me, angry truck?!_ – sort of gesture.

It was an unusually hapless gesture, and Optimus stared, caught out between surprise and fury. Then he was distracted away from Megatron by the squeaks and chirps of surprise from his Autobots. They’d been sleeping with him for months now, lulled to sleep by the sounds of his frame and they instantly recognized his deep engine noise, even from outside. Their happy greeting struck him as Mix cycled his drum open and Optimus’ unique engine growls could really be heard by them.

Mixmaster adjusted his mirrors, looking concerned and rightfully so.

Optimus Prime was furious. Beyond furious, even though his Autobots were obviously alive and delighted to see him. Their happy clicks of greeting filled his audials, and his hot rage for the conditions of their captivity lasted up until the singular instant that he stuck his helm inside the drum’s opening – jaw grinding with anxiety – and then received a blast of cool air to the face.

_Vector Sigma._

Then he needed to be in that deliciously cool area _right now_. Move over, precious Autobots, for your Prime is coming in there. There was going to be _cuddles_ and–

... and then the reality of the situation hit when his belly struck the rim of the aperture and went no further.

_Oh._

There wasn’t much room in there either, and now he understood why they’d left him outside. Either he would fit or they would fit, and he realized then that Megatron had made the right choice. Half in the drum, half out, he finally understood … and fully approved. The heat at his back felt even worse now that he could breathe properly and he felt Megatron throw a thermal blanket over the top half of him to help keep in the coolness.

Optimus glanced over his shoulder and swallowed, and then nodded at Megatron, giving his counterpart his due. He was a little surprised to see his arch enemy raise both fists – _Hallelujah! The angry truck finally understands!_ – and then Optimus snorted at him.

Megatron just shot him a massive grin, his fists on his hips, beyond pleased that Optimus had conceded to him.

Optimus was disappointed he couldn’t climb in there – couldn’t help but feel disappointed even though now he understood – and then returned his attention to his Autobots.

There was Sideswipe, clicking greetings, less mischievous as he had no room to prank anyone with. Some of the tether was still wrapped around him as he refused to let anyone remove it, and Optimus gave him an awkward my-belly-is-in-the-way-but-I-don’t-care hug that the Lambo returned whole-heartedly.

Ratchet was grinning at him, trying to coax Optimus closer while holding his hand protectively over something on his chestplate that Optimus couldn’t make out.

But Perceptor and Wheeljack were closer and helpless, and Optimus checked them next. They were still lost in the healing sleep – now joined by Jazz – and he sighed softly when he realized the situation.

Reaching out, Optimus stroked Jazz’s cheek, feeling how much calmer the Porsche’s fields were now that he was tucked closely with the others and feeling comfortable and safe for it. He was forced to remind himself that this was a good thing. Jazz needed this resting period to help heal. Then Optimus reared back and his engine rumbled in sharp revs, filled with sudden concern.

Jazz’s abdominals were flat.

Optimus helm tilted and his optics flew over to Ratchet with a look of sheer alarm but Ratchet waved off his concern with one free servo. _That is why I was trying to get your attention,_ his old friend snorted at him.

Then Ratchet smiled and showed him what he’d been holding and protecting so diligently. Bright blue optics turned and focused and then Optimus gave a soft gasp of sheer delight.

…

 _Wibble_ , went Prime’s engine.

Megatron blinked.

He’d _never_ heard Prime’s engine make that sound before. Then there were more of those noises, to join the reams of chirps and clicks and squeaks that echoed throughout the drum as it seemed everyone was catching up with everyone else.

Beyond the new little life – which Prime couldn’t stop beaming over – Prime was particularly enamored with the coolness inside. More than anything right now he just wanted to get his belly in there, even though he couldn’t get the roundest part of his belly through he was still trying.

This meant he was bent over with his aft sticking out and _wiggling_ and it was _damned adorable_ and Megatron was having trouble keeping his hands to himself.

A few illicit little squeezes later and Megatron ducked as Prime reached back and thwacked at him, annoyed for the hands that were patting his lower half, among other things.

Prime, meanwhile, kept trying to work his way further in all the while knowing he really _shouldn’t_ because there wasn’t enough room … well, maybe there was enough room … in some other reality where Mixmaster had a larger drum … but even so his Autobots were doing their best to cram over and make like sardines in a can … though _even if_ they could pull it off (snowball’s chance in…well…Uytis) it was hardly fair to ask of his poor, beleaguered _… are you sure? ..._ because there was ever so much of him out here and ever so _little_ room in there and he really didn’t want to intrude … well if you all insist it’s fine then … and of course they did even though it wasn’t true … wasn’t fine at all! … but their leader was _burning alive_ and of course they could make some room _somehow_ and then they all tugged and tugged on him, because they loved their Prime.

… _come in, come in …_

…

“That’s not happening, Prime,” Megatron murmured, and started pulling him back. “I do apologize for that. I know it’s miserable out here, but that’s… not happening.”  

More thwacking. _Let go_.

“No, Prime. You won’t fit. Trust me.”

It was obvious that Prime didn’t understand that, but he honestly wouldn’t fit and Megatron wanted him outside, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer. Megatron wrapped his arms around Prime, giving his rounder sections little squeezes, and Prime huffed at him and the thwacking intensified.

_Shoo, tank._

But Megatron insisted. “The day is coming, Prime. We need to get you back under cover,” and even though he knew he was talking to a linguistic black hole, he still tried to explain everything he was doing. Then he hefted up and forced his sad Autobot away from the other Autobots, the drum aperture closing with a _clang_ of finality.

Another miserable day was on the way, and though Prime wasn’t happy to be parted from his mechs, it _was_ time to go.

 “–know it’s getting hot, but it’s true that the stabby one had his little bitlet?” The news had spread, and everyone wanted to greet the newcomer, but TC could be heard shooing the other mechs away, for now.

The Seeker Armada were crowded all around the drum now, and they were insisting Mixmaster re-open the drum. Thundercracker had promised to let the Armada have a little peek at the newborn, and they were trying to cash in. Amidst being dragged away by Megatron, Prime winced when they smiled at him. Their cheerful chatter was incomprehensible but their glances at his bare frame and playful expressions seemed telling to him.

Prime sighed, a deep one that came from somewhere deep down inside and then gave up struggling. He knew he wasn’t going to win this battle, and so the next demand was a little more subdued. Being carried was less than dignified, and so he pointed at himself and then the ground and it was clear he wanted to walk instead.

“I am flying you over to the other side,” Megatron said as he approached the Bailiwick entrance. “You are not walking out there. The starlight is far too brutal for tolerance. Even I can’t stand out there for long.”

When Megatron didn’t respond to his demands, Prime began to try and wriggle loose to put his pedes down. _I said stop mollycoddling me_ , and Megatron could tell Prime wanted down, and that was just too damned bad.

“You will burn your … you don’t even have pedes! ... burn your damned _feet_ if I let you walk out there. So no, Prime, I am _not_ putting you down. Suck it up, angry truck.”

_Huffle, huffle._

“–you said he was one of us, you said he had _wings_ , and we just wanted to see–”

Megatron could tell Prime was beginning to understand from his tone that he didn’t give a flying frag. This seemed to be happening quite a bit lately, and Megatron could also tell that Prime wasn’t thrilled over his reduced level of agency over his own frame.

Megatron shook his helm at all the engine huffing. “What ever happened to all of your vaulted _patience_ , Prime?”

“–just a little peek! We’ll be quick!”

Then there was a high-pitched shriek behind them. It came from where Mixmaster was still stationed, and Megatron made the terrible mistake of startling, of flaring his plating in alarm and an instant later his angry truck was _airborne_.

Who knew a truck could fly?

…or at least that’s what it looked like whilst Megatron went flying helm-over-heels with a magnificent view of _charging truck aft_ as Optimus parted the gawping seekers with the wrath of a thousand howling sharkticons.

Flight mechs flew in all directions, sailing into walls, landing on faces, disproving common knowledge that seekers always landed on their feet.

Or was that Ravage?

Because absolutely nobody was on his feet anymore. “What?!” Nova Storm cried from his position now sprawled over the ground; face down with his heel turbines splayed over his helm.

“All I said was–”

…

**.0024 Kliks Ago**

“–LOOK AT HIS LITTLE BITTY WINGS!”

From Ratchet’s perspective, he’d been scowling at the crowding Armada faces peering into the drum all crushed together (Sunstreaker was only barely visible in the background and looking mystified for the hullabaloo) while trying to get a better look at the newborn and Nova Storm was having a small mental breakdown for the sheer volumes of _adorableness_ –

And then with a – _shoomph!_ – Optimus Prime was staring at him and they both shared identical startled looks.

Then Optimus peered down at the premature newborn, and the source of his concern became clear as eternally dignified face plates looked over the tiny frame with a solemn and concerned expression. _I heard a noise. Is he alright?_  

Ratchet blinked, still surprised for the suddenness, then nodded. _He’s fine. Some mechs are just overly excited to see him._

 _Hm. That is good to hear,_ and Optimus nodded solemnly. It… was understandable. He tilted his helm to regard the tiny newborn, considering the gravity of the situation. That was _weapons-grade_ adorableness right there. It could be devastating if fallen into the wrong hands.

 _Also,_ and here Optimus glanced at his old friend as excitable chatter penetrated the drum, sounding as faint echoes from concerned bystanders and one _very_ exasperated warlord.

… _I may be stuck._

Ratchet just smiled and the youngster emitted a very faint peep and moved his tiny pedes. Covering the tiny body with a cupped hand, Ratchet reached forward and gave his dearest friend a gentle kiss on his mouth, which Optimus returned with a deep spark-felt surge of joy.

Meanwhile and outside, everyone else was in an uproar as Nautilator shouted in his loudest, best imitation of Lord Megatron, “Sun’s coming up, ya scurvy dogs! Batten down the hatches! It’s going to be a right lovely scorcher me ‘arties!” – and mechs stared in open mouthed shock for Megatron’s _outrageous_ pirate accent and beneath the trash-drifts the Junkions cheered.

When Onslaught gave Nautilator his best ‘ _what the hell was that’_ sort of look, he merely pointed at Brawl with owlish-optics, and this time Onslaught _did_ crack his visor while face-palming as hard as he could face-palm.

“Nautilator,” Megatron called out as he wrestled with Prime’s lower half, “We will be discussing this later.”

Nautilator’s noisy gulp was audible across the Bailiwick, and then everyone was scurrying to get underground and out of sight of the hateful star now lifting his baleful head over the invisible horizon.

“Need to get you back to our quarters and under the thermal blankets!” Megatron sounded irate as he re-wrapped his arms around Prime while trying to get a good enough grip to tug him loose from Mixmaster’s drum without hurting him. It was to his further irritation that he found his counterpart to be no help at all.

“Really Prime?”

_…_

_…_

_…wibble._

…

They reached the relative safety of their quarters in record time.

Now that Optimus knew his Autobots were safe and comfortable, and the newborn was in the best of servos, his reality seemed far changed, and thankfully for the better.

As Optimus was every bit the military commander that Megatron was - and now that his Autobots were proven safe and sound - the next item on the agenda became his primary concern. To whit; they needed to escape this terrible hellhole.

He still didn't understand why they had been cast here. He still had no idea where _here_ even was. It didn't stop him from working towards the greater goal, didn't stop him from focusing on escape to the best of his ability. His Autobots had made good progress on the sunken ship, even to the point of a basic engine frame.

Fully aware that he was missing vast reams of situational information, he wasn’t sure if Megatron understood just what it was that was buried under their pedes. Thus, while being settled in to face another blistering day, he tried to explain to Megatron what lay beneath. He tugged on his counterpart's armature, catching his attention, _listen, this is important._

Optimus began the complicated game of charades while Megatron coated every inch of his frame with cooling gel.

The intimacy being shown him was ... startling. Those dark servos had all but torn him asunder endless times during their long conflict. Now they slicked life-saving coolness over his entire frame without the slightest hint of malice. _Aggression_ , yes ... forever and always. But from that dark blur there seemed nothing darker then perhaps a desire for ultimate dominance; to be the one that pins instead of _being_ pinned in this new dynamic they’d found themselves in.

Waving his servos under Megatron’s nasal sensor, Optimus wasn’t sure if he was being understood or not. His troublesome optics kept focusing on anything and everything that _wasn’t_ his old enemy’s face, and Megatron’s expression remained unknown even as his hands remained busy.

The wet sounds of smoothing gel and the slide of fingers over his chest and down and around his belly was distracting. Being touched like this was arousing. The dark blur was all but over top of him now, and the closeness remained intimate.

Optimus bit his lip and forced himself to his own task. He was holding critical information and had to stay focused on his unorthodox debriefing. Unbeknownst to him, Megatron _was_ watching his attempts to communicate with interest, but without understanding.

Then Optimus flinched when Megatron pulled out that damned little thermometer ... _gah!_ … and yet what he needed to impart to his old enemy was far more important than this little incursion, and his servos remained dedicated to communication.

Optimus shook his helm at the thermometer with a dignified frown ... _really don't want that in there_ ... and then focused on his gestures again, his two hands joining together and up to mime a ship taking off.

Unaware of the complicated concept Optimus was trying to explain, it must be said that Megatron really tried to understand. But no matter how he squinted at Optimus' waving hands, he couldn't catch the meaning. Finally, and with the temperatures soaring, he gave up and focused on getting Optimus to accept the tiny thermometer. 

Optimus blocked the dark servos trying to insert the slim little device with his knees, and snapped his fingers insistently ... _stop that and pay attention!_

But Megatron did not obey. Instead he grabbed at Optimus' offending knees, offered more words in a slow, particular way, and then parted them, using his heavier thighs to keep them spread while Optimus clicked protest.

The weight on Optimus’ front made struggling very difficult.

Holding Optimus firmly, Megatron tried to reinsert the thermometer into Optimus' reluctant intimate port. He frowned when the unaroused port was too tightly clenched for easy invasion. Licking his fingers, he stroked around the clenched entrance in circles, slowly approaching the sensitive slit while resolutely ignoring Optimus’ insistent clicks of protest. Then his petting was interrupted by a bare pede to his face plates, the depression plate and three-toe-servos insistently pushing him back and away.

Leaning left, then right, Optimus dodged the next few attempts to insert the little device into his sensitive port. He was further frustrated to realize that Megatron had given up trying to understand him.

Megatron was ignoring his hands and offering only verbal gibberish in response. Speaking slowly, Megatron pronounced each glyph carefully, like one would do for a sparkling taking his first tentative steps out of neo-binary.  

 _He is trying to re-teach me Cybertronian,_ Optimus realized while struggling against and wriggling away from the gentle fingers warming his lower frame. It wasn’t going to work. He couldn’t process the sounds and associations needed for language. He simply couldn’t make those physical connections.

Giving up on that attempt at compromise, Megatron managed to pin Optimus down again, and then recoated the thermometer with his pre-fluid. After a few more strokes the softening slit opened just enough and the thermometer disappeared into Optimus' intimate port. Optimus chuffed his irritation with the indignity of it all, and then redoubled his efforts to share critical tactical information.

Megatron offered more gibberish, but not so pointed or expectant, more mere nonsense-sounds meant to soothe him. Now that basic data flowed freely across his HUD, Megatron went back to trying to understand all the random gestures. He tried to mimic the hand motions, as if thinking that if _he_ made them, somehow the meaning would become clear. It didn’t seem to work, but it was obvious that he wanted to understand.

Optimus’ own patience stores were getting low, but he was still surprised. He had never seen so much tolerance from that dark frame before.

But Megatron seemed to give up again, and was now trying to wrap him up in thermal blankets, including his servos. Soon communication would be impossible. So frustrating. There was only one other way he could try and make himself understood, but he didn’t want to do it. He really, really didn’t want to go there. Everything was embarrassing enough for him right now, but again, this was important.

_Ugh._

_Don’t make me make the ship noise,_ and Optimus glowered at his curious counterpart. His eyes went harsh with warning. His helm lowered and his lip curled just slightly _. Don’t you dare._

Optimus shook his helm and made the motion again, his two hands joined together and up, to mime a ship taking off.

Megatron just stared at his servos and his lip plating quirked. He looked up at Optimus and there was a curious mix of emotions alight on his regal face plates. The amusement was impossible to hide, but also minor panic as he didn’t want to appear like he was belittling the wary Autobot staring at him threateningly.

 _Don’t you dare,_ Optimus glared at Megatron and made a gesture for a flying ship again and again and again, but _still_ the bastard didn’t understand.

Optimus swallowed, looked around to make sure no one else was watching. Megatron eyed him curiously and stepped closer, with a conspiring quirk at corner of his lip now. Obviously Optimus was trying to keep whatever it was _hush-hush._

Optimus made the motion again, and with a sigh, included the clicks and putter sound of an engine starting up. _Tick tick vrumm whirr…_

Megatron’s optics lit up in comprehension. He made the motion, and pointed down below questioningly, his vocalizer running elegant but incomprehensible glyphs in glorious patterns, interlaced with delight.

Optimus nodded. _Ship, down below._

Megatron looked pleased, and then sat back. He cocked his helm and pursued his lips, looking so very amused. Then he slipped in closer. Wrapping his arms around the other, he nibbling along neck cables as his lip plating traced their way up a blue audial.

 _Vroom, vroom,_ he murmured into Optimus’ audial then and squeezed the bare aft, and ducked the irritated smack the angry truck aimed at him.

 

* * *

 

It was too hot to stand. That next evening Optimus barely touched the floor with his bare pedes and then leapt right back up on Megatron.

It seemed everything and everyone was too hot to function. The electric heat-buzz from outside grew ever louder. Then odd plunking and popping sounds joined the background noise. The fluid pouring out the shower nozzle began to sputter, and Megatron frowned when he realized the fluid was evaporating in the pipelines.

 _Primus,_ and there were still several days left to endure. Megatron knew they were running out of time. Worse yet, the heat stress was sapping away Prime’s strength, and the next time when Megatron tried to wake him, there was no response.

 _He has fallen into the healing sleep_ ,  Megatron realized with a sinking spark. Then he shook himself, reminding himself that this was not only natural, but a good thing overall.

Prime needed this.

“Go ahead and sleep,” Megatron murmured into a blue audial. “You are safe with me.”


	21. Aegis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Onslaught makes a discovery and Optimus nearly kills Megatron.

“You are safe with me,” Megatron had promised.

It was a promise he was struggling to keep. It was a promise the old star seemed determined to see him break.

Optimus Prime was heaving, straining as if fighting some miserable battle. The room was beyond stifling. All metal surfaces were almost too hot to touch, even for metal hands. The smell in the air was of smoke; of burning oil, of a frying pan left on the heat for far too long.

Megatron, too, was gasping.

Assured of his own hardiness, he ignored the warning alerts populating his HUD, dismissing them as soon as they appeared. He only dared to uncover Prime long enough to sop more cooling gel over their entwined frames. He barely felt the coolness anymore, but knew it was part of what was keeping Prime alive. He re-wrapped them as swiftly as possible.

Settling back over Prime, he made sure none of their connecting lines had kinked. They were wrapped up together, and the thermal blankets weren't the only thing they shared. 

That morning, as the temperatures soared, Prime's overworked ventilation systems had shut down entirely. His internal fans rattled to a halt and his limbs began to shake. It was the first stages of terminal shutdown from heat exhaustion.

Optimus Prime was dying.

Megatron summoned Hook in a near panic. With the spectre of death tapping at the door, it was time for desperate measures. After a bit of protest – to which Megatron responded with threats of violence – Hook complied with his demands.

Now they were fully wired together. They were sharing internal fluid tubing, fuel lines and coolant lines, all interconnected into one desperate, mish-mashed frame.

Megatron was miserable. Prime was beyond miserable.

Currently Megatron was face down and covering Prime's frame with his own. He'd stomped the berth down into a V shape and lined the sunken part with thermal blankets. Prime was nestled into that space, with Megatron lying over the top of him, with thermal blankets wrapped over and around them both.

Even with his intact frame, his systems struggled to cool them both. It helped that more blankets were spread beneath the berth to help block some of the heat from the metal floor. All his efforts combined were working, but just barely. Between the two of them, they hovered beneath a near-lethal temperature.

 _At least he is still alive,_ Megatron tried to reassure himself. Never could he have imagined something like this happening, back in the day. Things had changed, though it was debatable to say for the better.

No one else was any happier. The heat taxed everyone, and there was no movement anywhere within the penitentiary.

Well, almost none.

There _was_ one mech moving, but the last surviving Ammonite had no choice. His fuel tanks were grinding on empty and he crept out of the deep places to scavenge, venting shallowly for the hideous air.

He was surprised to find no resistance whatsoever. No one was standing guard in the Courtyard; no one had bothered to fulfill any tasks or report for the few, meager duties assigned in this hellhole. It was too damned hot, and so there was no one to stop him from gulping his fill.

Leaning over the bin, the Ammonite stole great mouthfuls, his cheeks billowing, fluid dribbling down his face, filling himself with their crude fuel. Then he stashed as much as possible for later. He did so with great anxiety, and then crept back down below without incident.

No one was happy ... all except the Autobots still sequestered in Mixmaster's drum. Their chatter had faded to snoozing breaths and Ratchet's chainsaw snores. Those first few joors of the night cycle had terrified the newborn. His optics were still sealed closed, still developing, and so his main input was from his audial and tactile sensors, and one of those two were reporting some _fantastically_ alarming noises. His high pitched cheeps of alarm echoed around the tiny drum until his adopted carrier soothed away his tiny fears.

Foster carrier is just _sleeping_ , dear.

For Ratchet’s soothing fingers and kindly murmurs, the newborn quickly grew used to the noise, eventually understanding it was normal and not threatening. Curiosity replaced fear, and after processing the stupendous sleep-noises, the newborn internalized them as communication sounds (even to the point of mimicking them during the day, to Sideswipe's _intense_ amusement).

Now they were all sleeping harmoniously, even though it wasn't deliciously cold anymore. Mixmaster's systems were too overtaxed, and no one dared open the drum aperture anymore. But for the Autobots it was still cool enough for comfort. Unaware of the danger outside, they blissfully slept away the hellish days.

Megatron envied them, and now he wished Prime could fit in with them. Things were bad, worse than he'd imagined.

<Update.> Megatron demanded, short and to the point. He was unwilling to waste energy with more as beneath him, Prime was still squirming, and he was forced to tighten his arms around Prime to keep him still. Exhausted and miserable, he was in desperate need of some good news.

<Another hour, maybe two at most.> Scavenger delivered said good news while sounding just as drained. <Then I will get started on the sunken ship. Long Haul finished his inspection yesterday and he has a few ideas on how to get it out of the ground intact.>

Megatron nodded, almost forgetting that Scavenger couldn’t see his reaction. He huffed in approval, pleased to hear his plans were already underway. <We will need to attend that task communally. The Mauler ship is due to return. I intend us to be ready.>

<The Autobots already laid the groundwork, pretty decent-like too. Hook couldn’t even complain … much. Can’t wait to get off this rock.>

Scavenger moaned the last bit and then rattled on for a little while longer. But his words began to slur the longer he spoke, hinting at his deep exhaustion. The heat was wearing on them all, but Scavenger was several days now without recharge.

Knowing that Scavenger was doing his best, Megatron left him to his task. He even managed a few words of encouragement, though his voice was nearly drowned out by his own labored internals.

Megatron's own cooling fans were running at a _violent_ roar. His plating was trying to flare but he forced it down, covering as much as possible, keeping the heat out as best he could.

Distraction lost, Megatron buried his face into the soft berth pad and tried not to vent. Beneath him, Prime moaned into his neck cables, a hoarse, desperate sound. It was a weak cry for help, already answered to the best of Megatron’s ability.

It wasn’t enough.

Prime’s entire body trembled as he fell ever closer towards heat deactivation and through their shared life-lines he slowly dragged Megatron down with him. The temperature gauge continued to creep higher for them both.

“Hold on,” Megatron tilted his helm a bit and murmured into a blue audial. “Rescue … comes swiftly. Stay with me … just a little longer.”

At the sound of that deep voice, Prime brushed his mouth against the other, swallowing noisily. It seemed he understood on some level that Megatron was trying to help him. Though he strained against the weight atop him, the feel of his electromagnetic fields suggested he wasn’t rejecting that help, but more trying to struggle against their fate, somehow.

The desire to fight was strong within him, and that was something Megatron wholly understood. He could feel how badly Prime wanted to thrash, an instinctive desire to _get away_ from whatever hell he'd fallen into. But struggling would only make things worse, and he used his heavy body to force Prime to stay still and quiet.

Unrelenting in his grip on his consort, Megatron had one last trick to try. He flared his plating for a moment and pulled the more flexible Prime against his deeper frame, working limbs in and under his plating however well he could while careful for their shared lines. Prime instinctively wrapped his limbs around Megatron, nuzzling closer. Clamping his plating back down, Megatron then offered Prime his intakes and settled as Prime latched on again, and they shared the slightly cooler air of their internal systems.

It felt like a kiss, but it wasn't; it was a shared breath of life. It was their last one, and they passed the precious coolness back and forth between them.

Across the room and just inside the door, Death crept ever closer.

 

* * *

 

The sounds of machinery rattling to life woke Thundercracker from his stupor.

Thundercracker cracked open a bleary optic, dismissing scores of high temp gauge warnings. They'd known it might get uncomfortable, but they hadn't realized how bad things would actually get.

Even with the energy shield redirected to the Courtyard ceiling, the heat pouring down had been intense. Regardless of plating, many of the previously injured had dropped into a heat induced-shutdown, Skywarp and Swindle among them.

Now gusts of blessed cold blasted from the ventilation ducts, shivering along his wings.

"Thank Primus," Thundercracker groaned, and then pinged Scavenger with spark-felt gratitude. From all across the Bailiwick, he could hear others doing the same as they trudged towards wakefulness.

"All hail Scavenger!" Nautilator shouted, "Savior of Uytis and fixer of busted up slag!" Listless yet spark-felt cheers sounded up and down the corridors, fading back into quiet wheezing thereafter.

It would be some joors yet before the penitentiary fully cooled, but the difference was already being felt, and the return to sanity was wonderful.

Next to Thundercracker, Skywarp was sprawled half on and half off the berth. His complaining had finally silenced when his processor had slipped offline. He was still a little weak from his near-death experience, and he and Swindle had actually succumbed to the heat much like the Autobots had previously.

Checking the purple menace, Thundercracker was relieved to find him venting at a more normal rate. He still didn’t like how sluggish 'Warp was. Nervous, he lifted his trine mate and propped him against a wall ventilation duct so that cold air blasted over his back and wings. His own wings settled a notch when Skywarp seemed to get better by the klik.

Then Skywarp opened his optics, blinking, and Thundercracker slumped back in relief and ‘Warp offered him a woozy grin. He started to sit up, but Thundercracker waved him back.

“Just sit there for a bit and cool off,” Thundercracker said. “It’s still mid-day and nothing to do right now but recharge anyway.” The temperature in the room was still dropping, and he was starting to feel comfortable now. He was looking forward to a decent rest as unlike Skywarp – who could sleep through an apocalypse – he hadn’t been sleeping well.

"Thanks,” and Skywarp flexed his wings, enjoying the blast of coldness over his sensitive panels. “I'll never complain about cold mornings on Cybertron ever again," he promised with a groan. But it was a damned lie and they both knew it; Skywarp hated mornings, especially cold ones, and that would never change.

Thundercracker grinned and was about to settle back down to recharge when he heard Long Haul yell something indistinct from a few cell-rooms down.

“No response either,” Onslaught shouted back. “No. Stay there. I will check on them.”

Thundercracker frowned when Onslaught trudged past moments later. He was panting, great gusts roiling out of his vents and his plating was alternating between flaring in concern and clamping back to his irritated frame. He looked as uncomfortable as they all felt, but he moved with determination all the same.

Thundercracker called to him, “Something wrong?”

“Scavenger didn’t respond to my ping,” Onslaught frowned past Thundercracker as he passed, taking note of Skywarp’s condition. “I checked with Long Haul, and he couldn’t get a response either. Long Haul has Prowl in his cab, or he would go himself. Megatron isn’t answering pings either. I’m going to check on them.”

Checking his own logs, Thundercracker frowned when he couldn't find an answering ping either. TC winced as duty called like a boss checking in on a wayward worker; intrusive and unyielding. If the rest of command was hot and bothered, there was no way he could stay down.

So much for a comfortable recharge. “You take Scavenger,” Thundercracker said as he dragged himself to his feet. “I will check on Lord Megatron.”

"Hey," Skywarp said and sat up. He was about to offer to join the rescue party, but Thundercracker waved him off. "Stay there and rest, I'll be back."

Skywarp frowned, considered his options, then got distracted by closing all the internal alerts - layers and layers of them – and when he looked up, TC was already gone.

Thundercracker’s ventilation systems were still pinging warnings as he stepped out of the Bailiwick with a trace of hesitation. But the bright light was bearable now, and the number of alerts popping up in his HUD grew fewer by the moment. The temperature was dropping at a decent pace as the air coming out of the vent ducts was positively frigid.

Near the entrance, the Dynobots were all sprawled out together. No one was touching anyone else for the heat, but they remained as close as possible anyway. The crunch and scattering of trash carried across the open spaces and Pipes perked up when he saw the Air Commander heading out into the Courtyard towards the far caves.

“Hey,” Pipes called at Thundercracker, “Have you seen Bluestreak anywhere?”

“I haven’t,” TC said as he passed. “Wasn’t he supposed to show up for an appointment with Hook?”

“Yeah,” Pipes looked worried. “He said no way.”

Thundercracker snorted. “That’s not going to stand. If he doesn’t go willingly, they are going to go get him. Hook’s our acting CMO, and his orders stand.”

"Is there any way _you_ could bring him in?" Pipes called after his retreating wings. Thundercracker would be far more subdued in any such endeavor, he was certain. The Constructicons would enjoy such a chase far too much, and Pipes was worried for his friend.

"Can't," Thundercracker called back over his shoulder, "Onslaught already called it. He said he wants to use this as an opportunity for a training mission. He says it will help some of his team work out the kinks in their lines."

"Swindle," Pipes mumbled to himself, relieved at least it wasn’t the Constructicons involved.

In truth, Swindle _was_ in need of a few laps around the penitentiary for stiff lines. Watching him totter around the Bailiwick was rather painful, and a Datsun hunt would probably do him a world of good. Still, this was his friend they were going to chase down!

Sitting up, Pipes was still about to try and argue for greater mercy, but Thundercracker had already stepped into the far caves, the tamed starlight dancing across his wings until the last of him vanished into the dark gloom.

…

Leaving Swindle under Brawl's watchful eye, Onslaught trudged towards the level where Scavenger had reinstalled the air conditioning unit. Peering down the slats, he could see Scavenger’s limp form, and he picked up his pace.

Reaching the level, he'd just stepped off the last of the stairway when sudden movement caught his optic and he froze. Scavenger was just ahead, and someone was moving around him. Sinking down into a predator's crouch, Onslaught began to creep forward, intending to repay any injuries inflicted upon Scavenger a thousand fold. His plating began to flare aggressively as he recognized the threat.

_Ammonite._

Megatron wanted this one taken alive. Something about a headset … and showing up with the little beast in hand would increase his standing with Megatron and further his aims. Onslaught’s denta bared in excitement and he circled around to come up behind, but the little mech caught sight of him before he could get close enough to pounce. Then he realized the Ammonite was doing … _something_ … to Scavenger’s helm and he switched gears in an instant.

“If you've damaged him then you _die_ ,” Onslaught roared as he charged and the tiny mech bolted away, diving between the slats and vanishing below.

“Sick of you freaks,” and Onslaught followed with a hateful stomp that rattled the grating. To be fair, the Constructicons had murdered the Ammonite's companions in cold blood, and attempts at vengeance were to be expected. Standing over Scavenger, Onslaught had to reign in his homicidal impulses when it became clear Scavenger wasn’t hurt.

Chronically overworked, the good-natured Scavenger had collapsed into recharge the instant he’d finished his task. Though he wasn’t normally given to snoring, he was sleep-venting so hard it would have put him somewhere on the Richter scale with Ratchet.

Looking Scavenger over, Onslaught cocked his helm in curiosity as he showed signs of having been moved. Rags had been balled under his helm as a cushion. Actually … looking the situation over, it appeared the Ammonite had been trying to _help_ Scavenger.

 _Wants on the winning team now,_ Onslaught thought.

It was the only explanation that made any sense to him. It was also not bloody likely. Onslaught calculated the odds of an alien getting into Megatron’s good graces, and the numbers weren’t pretty. Especially for a mech worth more dead than alive. Nothing short of an act of Prime would save the Ammonite now, and Prime was down for the count for the immediate future. Megatron was not taken to mercy for the lesser races and the Ammonite could expect a swift beheading and then a short journey to a soup pot if he was stupid enough to get caught.

That was just fine with Onslaught, as the Ammonite would find no allies among the Combaticons.

Shrugging to himself, Onslaught straightened and pinged the worried Long Haul. After reporting the situation, he hefted the exhausted Constructicon over his shoulder and headed back towards the Bailiwick and a comfortable recharge.

“You got a minute, boss?”

Onslaught turned and glanced over his shoulder at Vortex, who was coming up behind him. Vortex must have come after him. He noted the hesitant way Vortex was purporting himself … how uncomfortable he looked. Onslaught kept walking, but his full attention was on his subordinate now. "What is it?"

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Vortex grumbled while scratching idly at his crude weld lines, as if they still pained him. “Well, scratch that. I _promised_ I wouldn’t say anything, which is not the same thing.”

Onslaught re-adjusted Scavenger over his shoulder while looking Vortex over with keen eyes. He was far less interested in secrets and more concerned for the here and now. “You still sore from the big fight? Maybe we should have Hook take another look at you.”

Vortex snorted and refused to dignify that with an answer. Instead he waved off the suggestion and continued, “You remember when we escorted Skullcruncher’s squad to Lev Mora? Remember when he and Brawl hit it off?”

Onslaught shrugged at first, struggling to recall the minutia of that trip. It seemed like lifetimes ago. “Brawl told him I was immune to comedy," he finally recalled while stomping up the stairway.

Helm dangling low against Onslaught's back plates, Scavenger slept on, and there had never been a mech so relaxed, so self-satisfied for a job well done. He was so relaxed that he left a trail of oral drool behind him as he was jostled to and fro. The little drops of fluid hissed and boiled wherever it splatted, spots which Vortex avoided with a grimace.

"Then Skullcruncher spent the entire trip slagging with me.” Onslaught frowned. Why was he remembering this again?

Vortex grinned a little. "Yep, that's the one. Best trip ever. Everyone laughed so hard they leaked optical fluid, and after we landed they had to sluice Blast Off out with a hose. Everyone laughed themselves hoarse, all except for you.”

“It wasn’t funny,” Onslaught grumbled. “None of it was funny. Who cares if Devastator's new mass is anatomically correct? Or that Luna II had a continental plate that looked like a constipated cog weasel? Frag if I know how many waste nozzles an interstellar shuttle has! I was trying to have a tactical briefing, and–”

“Right, and they couldn’t get you to laugh. You remember when Skullcruncher had so much fun that he said he was thinking about getting back into standup comedy?”

Onslaught shook his head, having all but forgotten the entire affair, except for the annoyance. What was all this about? He had far bigger things to worry about, like how the frag a small group of barely-fueled soldiers were going to storm a massive prisoner transport like the _Retribution_ , doubtlessly already on the way. Even with the sunken ship to get them into orbit - and Onslaught hadn't missed how pensive Long Haul had looked over that prospect - without enough energy for blasters, they were at a serious disadvantage.

“No. I don't remember. And I don't care to," Onslaught grumbled.

Ignoring his dismissive tone, Vortex continued, "He went ahead and did it. He had a successful run throughout the rim outposts and made some decent credits, enough that he was planning to go on an actual tour, an official one with advertisements. He even got approval from the higher ups, so long as his content was pro-Decepticon.”

“What does any of this have to do with Brawl?”

Vortex could tell he was losing Onslaught’s audial. If it didn’t involve tactics, military history, or current engagements, Onslaught had little patience for idle chatter. And so he got to the point. “Skullcruncher got permission to pick a couple of helpers and asked if Brawl wanted to roadie with him.”

Onslaught’s expression went from annoyance to shock in a flat klik.

Vortex smirked and continued, “Everyone wanted in. Well, not _me_. But everyone else. Do you have any idea how much aft you get as a celebrity touring for the troops? Metric aft-tons. So, yeah. Competition for those couple of spots on tour was crazy, but I guess Skullcruncher remembered Brawl. Right before this whole Quintesson mess kicked off I overheard a conversation between Brawl and Skullcruncher and he promised Brawl he’d save him a spot on tour as a bodyguard … if he could provide a vid of you laughing. And not just a regular laugh, he wants a full on riot. He wants you on the floor rolling, practically. Apparently it's for the promotion video.”

Onslaught stared at Vortex as if he’d grown a second head. “That’s ... _ridiculous_. I don’t believe it. Brawl is just trying to get under my plating. It’s … standard Brawl. It’s what he _does_.”

Vortex cocked a brow-ridge at that, and Onslaught looked on edge as he continued, “None of that even matters any more! Most of us are still enslaved and who knows if Skullcruncher is even still alive–”

“True. But. You are forgetting that Brawl tends to be something of an optimist,” Vortex reminded him. “Now consider. Normally he hassles all of us, so classic Brawl is rather spread out. But haven’t you noticed that lately – consistently and without fail – he’s always irritating _you_?”

Onslaught frowned.

Seeing he hadn't quite hit the mark, Vortex summed it all up for his dumbfounded squad leader. “He’s trying to get you to laugh so he can go on tour with Skullcruncher and get lots of tailpipe. And all he needs is a vid recording of you losing your lid and he’s in.”

"He won't quit until he gets what he wants," Vortex finished. "You know Brawl."

Onslaught all but sputtered in protest. "That's ... not ... _sane_."

Vortex just stared at Onslaught.

Alright fine. Point made.

“So you’re saying I need to keep Brawl busy,” Onslaught said and he was already looking thoughtful. Having hurtled the mental gymnastics necessary to make sense of any of Brawl's controverted motivations, he was already working out a plan of attack. No way was he giving Skullcruncher the satisfaction of seeing him succumb to bad comedy (otherwise known as all comedy).

"No, actually. What I came out here to say was," and here Vortex steeled himself, "Maybe one little belly-laugh wouldn't kill you." He managed to keep his face plates straight, but it was a tall order and he knew it.

Onslaught looked alarmed and more than a little unconvinced. "You don't know that for certain."

"Snorph!" Scavenger offered his opinion, then added a "hurrrpmmphmuggle," for good measure while trying and failing to punch at Onslaught's shoulder - in the way one might soften up a too-flat pillow. A comfortable berth, Onslaught was most definitely not.

Side-eyeing the satisfied and snoozing mass of mech, Vortex scratched at himself some more. Well outside his comfort zone, he kept looking anywhere but Onslaught's face, but otherwise, he held his ground. "It means a lot to him," Vortex muttered in closing and then said nothing more.

Onslaught watched him drag his fingers across his dirty welds and his scowl deepened. They arrived at the Courtyard in silence, trudging side by side, and out of concern (and maybe indulging in a little vengeance against the messenger) Onslaught privately pinged Hook for an appointment for him, and they crossed the Bailiwick threshold in concerned silence.

…

Approaching Megatron's quarters, the first thing Thundercracker noticed was dual sounds of wheezing as two separate ventilation systems pulled in cooling air with great gasps.

It was an excellent sign.

When tapping at the door garnered no response or change in breath, Thundercracker shouldered his way inside. His optics caught on the large mass huddled in the middle of the berth and he froze just in the door. He was simultaneously startled and relieved by their state; odd of position and offline, but still very much alive.

They were heavily entangled, with Prime all but stuffed up and within Megatron’s flared frontal plates to the best that could be managed; his belly all but vanished under dark plating, with only his back mesh and the back of his legs visible, wrapped around Megatron’s waist and disappearing under the half-flared-clamped plating of his lower back. They were functioning as one mass of machinery and he could just barely see the fluid lines interconnecting their systems, culminating in their helms pressed together.

At first it looked a kiss, but both were offline, both sharing breath, and Thundercracker realized they were actually keeping their vent systems sealed and recycling cooler air between them.

_Puffft, pufft._

Sputters and blasts of air and moisture intruded from the nearby shower and the noise startled Thundercracker.

 _Megatron must have left the faucet running,_ he realized as he listened to the fluid making its way through the pipes. It started as a trickle interrupted by fierce blasts of air as the system coughed out the atmosphere trapped in the piping. The trickle increased to a gush and then finally returned to a steady stream of cascading fluid.

The room felt cooler, though with all the hot surfaces it would be awhile before things grew comfortable.

Then Thundercracker’s nasal sensor wrinkled. They had cut this rather close, and both Megatron and Prime had been so distressed as to have unintentionally emptied their waste tanks. They were both drenched with combined waste fluid.

Thundercracker hovered over the pitiful tangle of miserable machinery and hesitated. He lifted his hands and worked his fingers; feeling like he was intruding, feeling like he shouldn’t touch without permission. He’d never seen either mech like this. Then Prime pulled his intakes away and groaned and Thundercracker chided himself for his nervousness.

If it were him, he would want help.

Another moment's hesitation, and then Thundercracker started unplugging them from each other. The connections were straightforward, and he resisted the urge to call Hook. He could handle this, after all. He was further relieved when Megatron's prehensile tubes and cables retracted by themselves once freed from Prime's various ports.

Reaching down, he tried to lift Megatron first, but had to set him back down when Prime refused to release his hold.

Thundercracker wriggled Megatron's frame, trying to jostle Prime loose but failing. "Let go of him, Prime!" 

... click ...

"That was a no, wasn't it?" Thundercracker said. He was speaking more to himself as no one else in this room was awake enough to listen to him. "That sounded like a no."

Another frame shake. More jostling and rattling of plates, more infernal clicking. "Oh Primus, would you come _on_ ," Thundercracker said. He was rapidly losing patience, though there was little he could do about it.

... click ... click ...

Prime's fingers only tightened and yes, TC, that was _definitely_ a no. Maybe even a _hell_ no, though Prime wasn't one for grandstanding or over-dramatization.

Giving up under the pressure of possessive carrier clicks, Thundercracker laid Megatron back over Prime, and then blinked when Prime made a soft little noise … such a happy sound.

Thundercracker shook his helm. "Don't get comfortable," he warned. Then he redoubled his efforts and began uncurling those oh-so-tightly clenched fingers from around Megatron's back plates. He watched as a little frown crossed Prime's face for the defiance, his vents still blasting heat.

"I'm _trying_ to help you both. I'll come back for you right after," Thundercracker grunted his promises while fighting to loosen the last of Prime's fingers.

Once freed, Thundercracker shuffle-walked Megatron into the shower. Propping him in a corner under the spray, Thundercracker was just about to return for Prime when a _screeeee_ of metal forced him back. 

Megatron's heavy bulk was sliding down across the slick floor, to a more prone position. This was a problem due to the wet conditions. While the cool fluid was helping, it would be _far_ less helpful if left to block up Megatron's inhalation tubing. It didn't help that Megatron was still heaving, still sucking in great gasps of air. Thundercracker would have left him face down on the floor except it was … not pretty. Instead TC was forced to take the time to stop and position Megatron’s unwieldy bulk so that his vents wouldn't flood.

Megatron's head lolled again and he groaned this time, and Thundercracker hesitated.

"Sir?"

Thundercracker tried to shake him a little, hoping to wake him. But Megatron didn't resurface, and TC went back to propping him up against the wall. While preforming his due diligence, a noise began to register over the gushing sounds of fluid. 

... click ... click ... Click ... Click ... CLICK ... CLICK  ... **CLICK**... **CLICK**... **CLICK!**...

"I said _give me a minute!"_ Thundercracker howled from the shower, positioning and re-positioning Megatron as he kept sliding down the wall and started coughing each time as fluid splashed into his vents.

Finally Thundercracker was able to situate Megatron enough to leave him safely under the spray while he went to lift Prime. At this point the clicking protests held threatening tones – threatening _what_ TC had no idea – and said threat-tones were increasing in volume when he returned. 

Staring, Thundercracker shook his helm at the sizable, very upset mech stretched out and clicking furious protest. "Never in a thousand vorns did I think something like this could happen to me." 

Prime seemed every bit as exasperated. He wanted the one that soothed and comforted. He wanted the one with the particular scent.  He wanted the one that was _his_ , and his protests continued to increase, right up to the point that Thundercracker slid his fingers under Prime's frame. The physical contact of a stranger's fields and scent seemed to startle him. His limbs moved, but he didn't wake.

 _He’s gone to the dreaming,_ Thundercracker remembered. He relaxed a little after that, knowing he wouldn't be eating any fists. Well, at least any that weren't Megatron's.

Speaking of Megatron...

Behind him, Thundercracker heard the rasp of metal shifting and he winced. Great. That meant that Megatron was either sliding back down the wall again or was starting to stir ... while sliding back down the wall again.

One loud _whump_ later, and his suspicions were confirmed as Megatron's back plating hit the floor. His sputtering echoed from out the small shower and that answered that. With a soft groan, Thundercracker waded back into the unhappy situation.

Or was about to. But there was a crackle in his HUD, and Onslaught’s voice broke in for an impromptu report, even as he leaned back over Prime.

<Scavenger is heat-addled,> Onslaught said without preamble, <But otherwise functional. I am taking him to Long Haul. How is Megatron?>

<Heat-touched as well, but he and Prime are recovering. I will ping you if any problems arise.> Thundercracker reported and a satisfied Onslaught left the line a moment later.

Returning his attention to gathering up Prime, Thundercracker went to lift him, then huffed for the sheer weight involved. As a flight frame, TC was rather light. Built for high speeds and long journeys, he lacked the heaviness that a normal frame his size would have. He wasn't designed for lifting - grunt work was for other frame types. He was strong enough for the task of course, but the heft of Prime was still a surprise.

“Frag,” Thundercracker said as he tried to settle Prime a little better in his arms, "for someone without plates, you are damned heavy."

As annoying as it was to move him, the feel of him was rather reassuring. Thundercracker was further relieved when, while wrestling Prime out of berth, he felt movement. It appeared that the protoform had inherited the endurance of both carrier and sire. The youngster had weathered the storm with them, and was even functional enough to kick back in complaint at his too-warm little universe.

For his part, Prime disliked the feel of being carried. Preferring his feet on the ground or to be on a solid surface, the feel of airy lightness was concerning. Primes did not float on fluffy clouds of fluffiness. They strode mightily across the ground. Specifically, solid ground. Ground that didn't wobble or otherwise lurch and bounce him around until his front was uncomfortable and now his protoform was kicking him in the waste tanks.

It was unacceptable, and Prime's clicks began to increase in bass and temp again. They were unrelated to the words bandied above him, but Thundercracker ran with it, "Not that I meant anything rude by that."

But moving Prime _was_ rather awkward, what with the off-kilter weight. Not halfway to the shower and while stepping down, the slick floor went one way and Thundercracker's pedes went the other. Prime's weight meant Thundercracker landed flat on his aft with a high-pitched binary-burst of surprise.

Thundercracker cursed himself for his clumsiness, though his noise was outdone by Prime's concerned clicking. The startle seemed to trigger dark thoughts in the lucid dreams. Prime's engine began to rumble in harsh surges. His protests redoubled.

"Sorry about that," Thundercracker apologized. It didn't help. He winced again even as Prime's noisy engine surges and clicks echoed out from the main room and beyond.

 _Not so aware as I thought,_ Thundercracker realized. He hadn't been sure what Hook meant by "waking dreams" and had assumed some of what he was communicating was getting through. And though it seemed what happened around Prime did affect his dreams, it seemed there was no true understanding beyond the physical.

Prime's protests must have carried to half-addled audials. There was a clatter from inside the shower and a tense pause, as if some angry war-mechanism was thrust to wakefulness and was struggling to get his bearings.

"He's alright," Thundercracker called preemptively as he fought his way back to his pedes.

“Give him to me!” Megatron rasp-roared from the shower. That harsh call shattered the peace of the moment. The demand was querulous, but Glorious Leader didn’t sound to be in any condition for threats just yet ...

 "You seem a little off balance," Thundercracker offered as he entered the room with a still-clicking Prime. "Maybe I should hold on to Prime for a few-"

Good luck getting _that_ to fly.

“-Now!”

Thundercracker handed Optimus Prime over without another word, wincing when Megatron wobbled in place, further unbalanced by the extra weight of Prime now snug in his arms. TC said nothing, but he did swing an arm around Megatron’s waist, helping to stabilize Megatron while he struggled to find his balance.

Helping Megatron sit down on the stool, Thundercracker extended a pede and pushed at the stool's blunt legs, all the while trying to keep his distance. A few strategic nudges had them both under the cooling fluid. Then he retreated for a safer spot and stood in the shower entrance. He watched as Prime's complaints faded for Megatron's return to his personal space ... as it seemed this particular invasion was now most welcome.

A nervous voice intruded on the calm of the moment, “Everything okay in here?”

Nova Storm’s helm peeked around the corner as he asked. He was too nervous to fully invade Megatron’s quarters, but too curious if Prime had survived to stay away. Behind him was Thrust and trailing behind him was Acid Storm. They, too, were intent on sneaking a peek, though careful to stay behind Nova Storm to retain a head start in case Megatron grew displeased with all the gawkers.

You didn’t have to outrun Megatron, after all. You just had to outrun the poor idiot standing next to you. Tripping said poor idiot was a sound tactical plan as well, and Thrust's tripping-pede was all warmed up and ready, just in case. But thankfully, Megatron was in the shower and out of sight, and it seemed that curiosity wasn’t going to cost the cat a strip of his armor today.

Nova Storm remained the bravest of the three. He dared to enter the room, and then wrinkled his nasal sensor at the strong scent of waste fluid, much as Thundercracker had. He, too, recognized it for the indicator that it was; death had been caught reaching when Scavenger’s diligence in the face of extreme adversity denied him his prizes. “Cut it real close, didn’t they?”

“Looks like,” Thundercracker agreed, his scratched-up but graceful frame still blocking off the shower entrance.

"What's that noise?" Acid Storm asked as he stepped into the room with a cautious Thrust following after. There was a particular noise from the shower, a low rumble of a much-happier engine. If they had peeked around the corner, they would have seen Megatron leaning back against the wall with Prime settled in his lap. Instead, the two Rainmakers stopped and stared at the mess on the berth, at the soaking thermal blankets and the smell of desperation in the air.

Thundercracker flicked a wing. “That rumble-noise? It's Prime. He made it through okay, though it's a good thing Megatron had Hook join them together. There is no way he would have survived this on his own.”

There was precedent for such things, usually between brothers or trine mates keeping each other alive in the trenches in the terrible hours after the worst battles of long past, and so no one was particularly shocked. If there was a whiff of scandal for such intimacy between the once rival faction leaders, no one would dare say anything.

No one with any sense, anyway.

Forgetting where he was for a moment, Thrust grunted and crossed his arms across his front. “Sharing lines with a grounder is _disgusting_.” He remembered himself an instant later when three pairs of red optics darted towards the open shower door. Megatron was only paces away, and that sort of statement was sure to get a violent response from Glorious Leader. The moment ran long and Acid Storm made a twirling gesture across his helm - _you crazy?_ \- and Thrust gulped and Nova Storm was already edging towards the door.

“Thundercracker,” Megatron’s ragged voice drifted out from the shower, barely audible over the gushing fluid and all hell broke loose.

Nova Storm and Acid Storm exploded towards the door for a swift retreat. Guilty of stupidity but never one to let bravery stand in the way of a swift escape, Thrust whirled with them and then crash-landed on his face when a shapely yellow heel tripped him and Nova Storm disappeared to safety out the door an instant later in a blast of turbine-air and flashy wings.

Megatron's demands for an update on their situation were almost drowned out by the sound of fleeing pedes, but Thundercracker heard him. Realizing the stormfront had passed over without striking, Thundercracker relaxed. "Yes sir."

“Thrust,” Thundercracker said over his shoulder and flicked his wing at the mess, “Deal with this," and Thrust's shocked protests were interrupted by the snap of harsh wings. "Do it as a show of support for _our leader_.”

 _Frag_.

Thrust gulped. He'd all but volunteered by singling himself out like that and now he regretted it, but the damage was done.

Now he was going to be getting messy.

 

* * *

 

“Finally,” Mixmaster moaned.

He watched impatiently from his mirrors as the carrying mechs were coaxed from his drum for the last time. He was desperate to unfold himself from his vehicle mode and stretch his aching limbs. He was forced to remain patient, but he kept shifting his weight from tire to tire as the ousting of the carrying mechs from his internals became something of a scene.

Oh, the sleepers went quietly enough. They preferred the coolness and quiet, but had no choice in the matter. Thundercracker gathered them one by one over Ratchet's protests and handed them out. Handing Perceptor over to Nova Storm to carry, Thundercracker then stuck his helm back into the drum to lift the next scientist.

Nova Storm was adjusting Percy in his arms when Skywarp swooped down and snatched him up. Nova Storm froze, his intakes falling open in surprise, and was about to protest when Thundercracker - too distracted with Ratchet's protests to notice 'Warp - handed him Wheeljack next. Nova Storm started to adjust him, and then Skywarp snatched 'Jack too and disappeared with a bright grin and a _wharp_ before anyone could stop him.

Sideswipe merrily climbed over Thundercracker, who absentmindedly wrapped an arm around 'Sides' waist to support him as he clambered over. His wings twitched only a little when Sideswipe slid down them and to the ground.

Now Thundercracker was wrestling with a one-armed Ratchet over Jazz. Handicapped by the youngster he was sheltering, Ratchet lost the fight, and Thundercracker pulled Jazz out next. Both Acid Storm and Nova Storm shied away from the stabby one, but Thrust stepped forward gamely, wanting to score some brownie points and Thundercracker nodded at him in approval.

Then only Ratchet remained.

But the easy disembarkation stopped with the cranky medic; Ratchet wasn’t interested in leaving the drum. It was still hot out there. He wasn’t a fan, his internal fans weren't a fan, and as it would take some time before the heat dissipated, Ratchet planted his feet and held his ground.

And so Ratchet claimed the drum as his own, renaming it Ratchet-Land, complete with flag (just a little bit of thermal blanket caught in a gear, but it _was_ waving all conquest-like) and prepared to defend his new lands to the best of his ability (and he _was_ rather able).

Meanwhile, Mixmaster's whines reached epic proportions and Long Haul pinged Thundercracker with a polite request for what was taking so damned long, and Thundercracker knew his number was called. Ousting the red and white dictator from house and home necessitated going in after him, and Ratchet wasn’t interested in that, either.

 _Go away and let me sleep,_ Ratchet threatened, wielding the business end of his wrench and fist and pedes, but Thundercracker was insistent. “Remember the fuss you threw when we tried to put you in here?” Thundercracker reminded him. "You practically blew a gasket. That worked out just fine, didn't it? So how about you give your new quarters a try before you hit the warpath?"

It was a good effort, but all to no avail.

 _Clunk, clunk, clunk,_ went Ratchet’s wrench, and on his chest, the newspark squeaked along to the noisy sounds of Thundercracker receiving even more helm-dents to add to his collection.

“Chirp! chirp! chirp!” the newborn squeaked and then offered an odd blast of sound while wriggling around. His tiny optics were still sealed closed – the optical lenses were still developing – but the noise was plenty stimulation for him, and he was enjoying his little self immensely.

“That sounded like a chainsaw,” Nova Storm grinned, delighted with the tiny little mech. He was standing with Acid Storm and Ion Storm, all of them fussing over a cheerful-looking Sideswipe.

“I still get first dibs to hold the new one,” Acid Storm reminded everyone within audial range while Ion Storm checked over Sideswipe and then offered to lift him, which ‘Sides declined. The ground was still hot, but not dangerous, and Sideswipe was content to stand.

Glancing back at his brothers, Ion Storm was pleased to see they were distracted with Ratchet and the as of yet unnamed newborn. Everyone seemed to think it polite to wait until Jazz and Ratchet were repaired enough to provide one, though Nova Storm was already starting to offer up suggestions.

"You can't name him Flytwist," Acid Storm protested. "That name is already taken. Remember Flytwist was the one with the faulty aileron? Kept dropping out of formation, but they couldn't figure out what was wrong?"

Thundercracker stepping to the side as Ratchet was finally ousted from his comfortable abode and settled on the ground with a huff. Taking Jazz from Thrust, Thundercracker began leading a fuming Ratchet towards their new quarters while finally taking note of the conversation. "I don't care what you call the little guy, so long as you realize it's just a placeholder name. Jazz's opinion is the only one that matters, remember."

Nova Storm turned to follow and said, "Sure you can use the same name twice. What about Tankor and fat Tankor, remember them?"

"It's rude," Acid Storm insisted, chasing after his brother.

"Come on," Ion Storm murmured to Sideswipe, offering his arm and a playful grin, and began to lead Sideswipe away from the dwindling crowd. The carrying mechs were to be escorted to their communal cell-room in the Bailiwick, but now that most of the threats had been neutralized, they didn't actually have to stay there. They were  free to wander about, and Ion Storm was taking full advantage of that.

Sending an explaining text to Thundercracker, Ion Storm turned and began to coax Sideswipe in the opposite direction, down towards the secret entrance and to a quieter cave on the opposite side. He'd already scouted it out, and dug out a nest again.

Despite his trine mate's offers and begging, Ion Storm wanted Sideswipe to himself.

Thankfully, the other Rainmakers didn't notice him leave with Sideswipe. Sunstreaker was also absent, having been assigned to help seal up all the open, damaged piping across the penitentiary. He hadn’t been invited to the little welcome to the party, and was unaware the carrying mechs were being permanently ousted from their drum-home.

With a couple of coaxing tugs, Ion Storm received his wish when Sideswipe followed after him willingly enough.

At the same moment, Mixmaster wasted no time and transformed back. “You want some help cleaning out your drum?” Thundercracker called while pointing a wing at a suddenly horrified Thrust. “I already have a volunteer–”

But Mixmaster waved off the offer and charged towards where Long Haul was resting with Scavenger propped against his sides, deeply asleep. He was snoozing almost as hard as Prowl was, the Datsun still sequestered in Long Haul’s cab.

Peering into the side-window, Mixmaster was satisfied to see rusty door-wings drooped in sleep, and then settled down next to Scavenger while stretching every micron of his cramped frame in relief.

“Good work,” Long Haul’s deep rumble shook the group, and Mixmaster smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Just a little note. This chapter is way smaller then I intended, I had way more plot-stuff planned but because of my inability to find time to write due to life crap, I had to cut this one short and migrate a ton of stuff into the next chapter. I decided a shorter chapter would be better then a very late one.)


	22. Reverie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are Datsun plots and Prime dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special warning: Something of a self-indulgent crack chapter.
> 
> [ Megacat ](http://pollution-of-subterranean-waters.tumblr.com/image/151184705509) is not my creation, and in fact, I shamelessly borrowed him from this incredible artist’s awesome comics, after I stopped laughing long enough to see straight. Don’t worry, he will be returned to said incredible artist safe and sound, as soon as I figure out how the hell to get him away from Optimus.
> 
> 0.0

Megatron was dreaming.

It was an odd sensation. His body was physically comfortable and he felt secure, but in his dream he was in two places at once; flat on the berth but also floating above his own frame. Peering down, he could see himself, and what he saw surprised him. His frame was a withered husk, limbs twisted and thin as if all his life fluids were draining away. He watched in detached fascination as his frame tried to crawl away, only for a blue servo to drag him back.

It seemed a nightmare, but the horror of the imagery never struck. Then he jolted as he dropped from his floating position to merge with his frame and he woke in a flailing panic. His thrusters blasted as he instinctively tried to counter the feeling of falling. It all combined in him blasting up, doing a loop-de-loop in midair and then crashing face-first next to the berth in an undignified tangle.

Prime, nestled safe within his part of the berth-nest, remained undisturbed except for the sudden disconnect of their electromagnetic fields.

"Click?"

Megatron sat up with a small groan. "Easy," he murmured, "I'm still here."

Glancing over at the berth, Megatron wasn't surprised when Prime began to stir. He was surprisingly active, even in his dreaming state. Megatron _was_ surprised at how little it bothered him that he couldn't move more then a few strides away without Prime losing his processor. Actually, it felt nice to be so wanted and needed. It reminded him of earlier days spent with his old mentor Terminus, though he pushed those thoughts away with haste.

Plenty of mechs to grieve over without reaching deep into the past. Plenty of upsets well within reach, and with that thought, a ping from Long Haul broke in through his HUD.

Duty called, bright and early. With a sigh, Megatron opened the comm line and began to collect himself to face a new day. Rolling over to sit up, he braced a pede flat against the ground while trying to catch his bearings. Long Haul's line connected a moment later, and a rush of words poured into his audial.

<Sorry to bother you this early, but I need to talk to you.> Long Haul sounded nervous, which was rather unusual for him.

Curious.

<Go ahead,> Megatron said as he cycled his optics to clear the lingering sleep-static. He watched as the dark room brightened for his eyeshine. If they stayed here much longer, he would have to get Scavenger to install some sort of lighting. The second thing he noticed was the probing reach of a nervous electromagnetic field.

<-I had a chance to go over some scans of the sunken ship, and with the problems we will have with materials, I think we should refocus our efforts on the original plan->

Distracted, Megatron forced himself to listen to Long Haul, though he was far more interested in Prime's electromagnetic fields. They were flitting around as if in search, an invisible yet faintly tangible presence.

Long Haul coughed politely, and Megatron realized he was waiting for a reply.

<That plan has a large prospect for failure,> Megatron replied and he was already starting to tune out Long Haul’s report as useless servo-wringing. Yes, the task at hand was difficult, and Megatron said as much. He also noted it was fortunate that they had such dedicated and skilled construction engineers to tackle the problem.

Hint hint.

Meanwhile, he could feel as Prime's electromagnetic field brushed up against his own. Having found him, Prime's fields traced over him and seemed to take in his disordered state. Megatron's fields were still in disarray for the sort-of nightmare. Another inquisitive little touch - _mate is upset?_  - and then Prime's field crashed down with overlying force. The kindly affection thrumming through Prime's field was calming, even as it went to war with Megatron's own fields, as if trying to engulf him. Under different circumstances, this might be considered an aggressive act. But knowing his berth mate, Megatron wasn’t concerned. It was obvious Prime was trying to sooth him, even in his sleep.

"Heh," Megatron chuckled and pushed back, only to feel Prime redouble his efforts. They battled back and forth, but he had to admit it was working. Amusement was replacing his upset, thrumming through his fields.

<Sir?>

Mmh, right. Long Haul.

<Even I would have difficulty overpowering a military vessel without energy weapons,> Megatron said. It was the truth and he wasn't ashamed to admit it. <It is of some concern that the Maulers are so accustomed to Cybertronian warfare. Using the ship to breach orbit and attacking as a group has a far greater chance of success.>

<Yes, but–>

<We have already discussed the difficulties,> Megatron interrupted him. <Do your best with what you have. We will make up the difference with our fists.>

Prime was threatening to start calling for him, and of the two mechs vying for his attention, Megatron was only interested in entertaining one of them. Finished with the conversation, his impatience was coming through loud and clear.

Long Haul didn’t sound happy with that, but recognized his leader’s dismissive tones and didn’t argue further. He _was_ careful to end his impromptu report with some good news.

<Also, we’ve made some progress on the communication system,> Long Haul reported. <No way to receive or send messages, but we jury-rigged it to detect transmissions within the sector, and using that, we can calculate a position accurate enough for teleportation.>

Now that _was_ good news, and nothing short of a miracle considering what Overlord’s minions had done to it. Megatron was suitably impressed and said, <In other words, we now have an early warning system in place for when the _Retribution_ enters the system. That will prove useful while we lie in wait for their arrival. >

With a rumble of pleasure, Megatron commended Long Haul for his hard work, forgiving the earlier display of cold servos. Escape seemed close at hand as everything was coming together now. He was confident that soon they would be clear of this rock and heading back to Cybertron and sanity.

Across their connection, Long Haul’s wince was nearly audible. He tried to broach the subject again. <Actually, now that I’ve had a chance to go over the scans we took of the–>

<I have faith in your ability to handle this,> Megatron interrupted him. <I will leave you to your task.>

Megatron closed the line, and then returned his attention to his consort. He’d just stepped away for a moment, but a moment was one moment too long right now, and Prime was clicking again.

When Megatron returned to him, Prime’s engine began purring, and one leg slid out and Prime arched his back strut slightly. It was most obvious what he wanted.

"Again, Prime? After we spent half the night so engaged?"

Another engine purr was answer enough. Prime didn’t need so much attention as he demanded. His gestation tank was well filled now. But he’d gone without for so long that his frame remained ravenous for it. Like a mech kept caged and starved, any nourishment was desired and horded and obsessed over, even if the belly was finally full. He wanted a heavy frame over the top of him for protection and he wanted a spike inside him for satiation.

Megatron well understood that, and while Prime was lost to the dreaming, there was no conversation to be had over boundaries. Uninhibited for his sleep-state, Prime wasn't the least bit shy with his demands. Trusting Prime's desires were honest for his carrier coding instincts, Megatron let Prime take the lead for any physical interaction.

Maybe that was his mistake. “You are trying to kill me, aren’t you?” Megatron teased into a blue audial. “Some new, diabolical tactic that will see me march myself willingly to my own funeral?”

Another engine purr, an affirmative in his imagination only, as Prime was merely enjoying the mouth nibbling down his audial. Enjoying and wanting more. His spike was half out of his sheath now and his valve was wet and open and welcoming.

Megatron wasn’t sure how many times these last few cycles they’d interfaced. Prime's less-then-quiet demands were endless. He was putting Megatron through his paces, all but devouring him alive.

 _Ah well,_ Megatron thought. If this was some sort of diabolical plan to kill him there were far worse ways to go.

With a rumble, Megatron rejoined Prime on the berth and pressed in close. Settled over him, Megatron's knees pressed into the soft berth padding on either side of his consort. Baring himself, he offered his spike by running it up and along a smooth thigh. He rumbled in approval when he felt Prime shiver for the touch and then bent himself to task.

 

* * *

 

Once again, Ratchet was fit to be tied.

The communal cell-room wasn't the problem, as far as Thundercracker could tell. It seemed to the old medic’s satisfaction, at least. It had to be far better than then the rusted carcass of the sunken ship.

It took some doing, but he finally worked out the problem. Five Autobots had been pulled from the drum, but only Ratchet and Jazz had made it to the room. The grumpy old medic had gone from grudging acceptance of his situation to torqued in under a klik – possibly a new world record. All three of Ratchet's companions had disappeared, and he wasn't taking this sitting down.

Alright, that wasn't entirely true. He _was_ sitting down, fueling his adopted newborn, but that was neither here nor there. The point was - and Ratchet explained it to Thundercracker with much vehemence - that although Sideswipe was awake and could handle himself, Perceptor and Wheeljack were _not_.

 _Where are they?_ Ratchet was threatening to explode into a full-on tantrum. _I want them here with me!_

Thundercracker was certain the only reason he wasn’t sporting even more dents was that, currently, Ratchet needed both hands to make sure his adopted newborn didn’t fall. The youngster was having a _fantastic_ morning, and was now very busy trying to roll over while testing his bitty wings. All well and good, except every time he rolled on his back and flicked his wings, he would hop a little space, making him the wiggliest little thing on the planet.

The youngster was beside himself with happiness. Yesterday had been awesome and today was awesome and being alive was the _best thing ever_ and what _are_ these little turbines attached to his feets for? It was a question that must be answered _right now_ and so with little _poots_ of thrust, the squiggling newborn was putting the protective Ratchet through the wringer.

Ratchet did his best to rant and rave to Thundercracker despite the difficulty. He was nothing if not persistent. Thankfully, even without physical motivation (in the form of his swinging wrench) it wasn’t hard to figure out what he wanted. After some placating words and gestures, Thundercracker finally got through to Ratchet that he was promising to go find the two missing Autobots.

Turning away with a last few placating gestures (he was getting rather good at them) Thundercracker commed Skywarp. A little on the annoyed side for all the threats from the waaambulance (–brilliant! that one was _totally_ getting worked into his story somewhere!–) he was further irritated when Skywarp’s only response was in the form of a locator ping. 

Which usually meant ‘Warp was too busy to chat... though in this case it was more like he was too busy stealing bare-aft Autobots. No doubt he wanted to avoid a confrontation with TC for as long as possible.

 _Too bad,_ as Thundercracker was already on his way... and then a different ping caught his attention. Long Haul was trying to contact him on a priority channel, but not the command comms. That was curious. He opened the line while heading towards Skywarp’s location.

<I tried to break the news to Megatron,> Long Haul’s impatient voice burst into his internal audio, <but he sounded distracted and he shut me down before I could even get started. He told me to just deal with it, to just do my job and get this ship working. The thing is, I can’t just _deal with it_ , but he won’t listen–>

Megatron had been _very_ distracted as of late, for excellent reasons. Thundercracker frowned.  <I know. He’s been off balance lately. I’m thinking _desiccation_ –>

Long Haul made an explosive sound, and TC grinned even as he finished, <though to be honest, I still don’t understand the problem.>

<Everyone is dead set on this new plan, but it’s not going to work. We are better off sticking to the original plan of using the transporter to commandeer the mauler ship.>

<I thought you said we would only have enough energy to send one person onto the _Retribution_. There’s a huge chance things could go wrong. I… still don’t understand the problem. The ship should be sturdy enough after we patch it up with parts from the Quint transport, right? >

<The ship isn’t the problem–>

Thundercracker heard Hook interrupt Long Haul to say something indistinct and then Scavenger interrupted Hook. Long Haul, now exasperated, snapped at his two subordinates to _settle their slag down_ and then started again,  <–alright it is, but it’s not the main problem.>

Thundercracker rechecked Skywarp’s ping while listening to Long Haul rant in his audial, and he realized he must be getting close. This was a far corner on the upper level and usually on the quiet side. Everyone tended to stick to the Courtyard near the Bailiwick, and it did seem a perfect spot from a guardian mech’s perspective. He was almost to the pinged location now, but he couldn’t see any sign of Skywarp.

<I wouldn’t worry so much,> Thundercracker offered halfheartedly while poking around the trash-drifts for a pair of dark wings. <Once we get the ship topside we’ll have a better idea of–>

<Getting that damned thing out of the ground is going to be a hell of a mess!> Long Haul all but exploded over the comm line. <Even if we could get it patched up enough to fly, we don’t have enough energy to get it into orbit!>

Long Haul’s outburst startled Thundercracker to a halt. Now that he was paying attention, he could make out Hook ranting in the background and he frowned. <You said the solar sails the Autobots were building would be adequate to escape orbit. Scavenger said he could complete them and they would work.>

In the background, Hook was all but losing his mind and Scavenger was not far behind him. Long Haul snapped something at them and then turned his attention back to the comm line.

<According to Hook, the raw materials here are too substandard to rely on. It sounds like the amount of time it would take to get into orbit using the solar sails, added to the stresses from the star, would put us well past tolerance points. Hook thinks the shielding won’t be enough. He thinks the ship won’t even breech the atmosphere, much less break orbit. Prowl is insisting the original plan has a greater chance of success–>

Thundercracker flicked his wings, unhappy for the news. <But isn’t that why we were going to graft extra plating over the hull–>

<Hook says it won’t be enough.> Through Long Haul’s side, the sounds of a furious argument grew louder and louder. Scavenger and Hook were shouting over the top of each other now.

Thundercracker crossed his arms and narrowed his optics. <That’s what Hook says, but he's not doing the work. What does Scavenger think?>

Long Haul hesitated. In the momentary quiet, TC could just make out Scavenger’s enraged shout, ‘ _you never have any faith in any of my_ _schematics’_ and Hook roared back something that rhymed with ‘ _second-rate engineering dropout’_ and Prowl asked ‘ _what is the point of this exchange_ ’ and Scavenger screamed ‘ _you know they wouldn’t let me take the exam 'cause I was a low-class frame’_ and Hook’s snide ‘ _they already knew your worth’_ and Scavenger made a choking sound and Mixmaster snarled and Prowl scowled and Long Haul roared and then the fists started flying.

Thundercracker slapped a palm to the side of his head for the claws-on-chalkboard sounds of scrambling from Long Haul’s end. From the sound of things, Long Haul and Prowl were breaking up the mother of all catfights.

Over the clamor of his own swinging fists, Long Haul summed it all up to Thundercracker. <Look, I’m in charge of construction here and I am _telling you_ that we should just focus on the _original plan_ and just leave the rust bucket where it is. >

Now Thundercracker could understand why Megatron had tuned some of this out. It wasn’t anything he wanted to hear, either. Sick to death of Uytis, he just wanted the hell off this wretched world. He didn’t want to entertain any backpedaling. But Long Haul and his team had their mud flaps in a twist and so Thundercracker forced himself to listen.

<You seemed pretty confident in your last report,> Thundercracker waded into the mire to protest. <You already told Megatron the new plan would work.>

More important, he'd told Megatron that they wouldn’t need the space bridge module in his chest anymore. Thundercracker blinked as two and two came together. <Megatron was so relieved he didn't have to go in for surgery.>

Long Haul rumbled something under his breath, something to the tune of _frag my stupid mouth_ though he hadn’t intended to be heard.

Catching the mumbled words, Thundercracker recognized this was likely the source of Long Haul’s upset. Megatron had been _so_ relieved to hear he’d be spared Hook’s scalpel. There was something unpleasant pinging in the back of his mind. Something in the situation wasn't right. Try as he might, he couldn't grasp the connection.

Meanwhile, the comm line was quieting down as Prowl launched into a stilted lecture about the importance of unit cohesion. He started expounding on cogs working together and gears meshing (whilst sitting on Hook’s face) as Long Haul held Scavenger back and away from Hook (it more resembled a hug than anything else because at this point Scavenger was _shaking_ ).

Thundercracker was quick to get back to what he suspected was the point. <Megatron thinks he won’t have to undergo surgery.>

The line went fully quiet for a moment, except for the sounds of denta grinding. <–I am telling you, without energon, there is no way we are getting that ship into orbit. The heat and gravitational forces _alone_ –>

Thundercracker finally broke short the rant, getting to the heart of the problem, the combiner in the room, so to speak. <Well, have fun explaining all that to Lord Megatron.>

Dead silence on the line. Yep. Wait for it.

<You could break the news to him easier than me,> Long Haul wheedled, even as Thundercracker’s groan echoed through the line. <He listens to you.>

Giving bad news to Megatron was generally never fun, but he wasn’t inclined towards harming messengers. He was better than that, but depending on the manner of delivery and the tone – particularly if the messenger’s designation was _Starscream_ and the message was coated in snark – he wasn’t above punching the slag out of pit spawned glitches.

Still, that statement was an outright acknowledgement of Thundercracker’s growing rank within the court of Megatron’s approval. His wings flared for pleasure in spite of himself; flattery _did_ tend to get somewhere if you were talking to seekers. Also, if he agreed, this counted as a favor, and compensation would be in order.

<I could,> Thundercracker said after allowing the moment to hang a bit. <But you would owe me.>

<Deal.> Long Haul accepted that instantly as such trades were standard amongst Decepticons. On Long Haul's end, Prowl sounded pleased with the outcome, Hook grunted approval, Scavenger stomped away, and Thundercracker felt a growing sense of disquiet.

Thundercracker closed the line with a frown, not looking forward to that particular conversation. Megatron had looked so relieved; pulling the rug out from under him would not be fun. Thankfully a distraction to take his mind off his new task was already at hand as he arrived at the spot Skywarp had pinged to him.

It was an empty wasteland of a corner, currently devoid of both seeker and science-type mechs. Irritated, Thundercracker was just about to open a priority line and indulge in some yelling when soft clicks floated down to him from above.

It seemed guardian-instincts meant mechs were rather good at hiding their carriers, but Percy and ‘Jacks contented-sounding clicks betrayed their location. TC relaxed somewhat for that happy chorus of sound.

Peering upwards, his sense of relaxation fled when he finally caught sight of them. Oh, they would have been far less happy if they were awake.

Skywarp had sequestered them in the highest corner of the penitentiary. He'd commandeered a lone section of catwalk, barely more than a few truck-lengths, and was hard at work constructing a nest of sorts. It looked like something a winged predator would build, harsh and _very_ high up. Staring upwards, Thundercracker was surprised at the sheer focus Skywarp was showing towards his instinctive task.

So unlike him.

Thundercracker was surprised, but also alarmed, as the catwalk wobbled under Skywarp’s pedes. It was secure enough for use by the alert and wakeful, but certainly not for the happy and sleeping.

“’Warp! Bring them _down_ ,” Thundercracker called up to his trine mate. “It’s too high up there.” Staring upwards, he could just see the curve of a bare pede, and he frowned. _For grounders,_ he thought, and he knew that Skywarp would pick up on that unspoken inflection.

Seriously though, Skywarp should know better than this. He’d taken his charges up to the tallest catwalk, accessible only by flight. Perfectly fine for Skywarp or any other flight frame … but Percy and ‘Jack couldn’t fragging fly.

Moreover, they couldn’t handle such a fall in their condition.

 “But, Thunders!”

“Careful with them!” Thundercracker shouted up at him. He took a nervous step forward, threatening to come up and help. Skywarp scrambled to grab them both, not wanting to share.

Far above TC, the catwalk rattled and shook alarmingly, and Thundercracker tensed. Then Skywarp reappeared, and his wings tilted aggressively. “Why are you being like this? I thought things were going to be better–”

“They can’t _fly_ , ‘Warp!”

Skywarp froze for the reminder. Thundercracker saw ‘Warp’s face pop over the edge as he recalculated the distance to ground from a flightless mech’s perspective. His lips quirked and Thundercracker could _see_ his paradigm shifting. TC bit back a groan. As much as he loved his trine mate, this was typical Skywarp. It was so like him to not think ahead, to not consider consequences past what he wanted.

Though in fairness, it wasn’t that Skywarp was _intentionally_ neglectful.

Thundercracker could see scraps of cloth and bedding in the corner and little containers of soup-rations. He could see that the two Autobots were happy enough to be nestled together in the comfortable nest. The bowl shape of the sunken bedding seemed to be a comfortable configuration for all of the carrying mechs. It was likely they were mimicking old Predacon nests. That was all fine and well, but the fact that they were so high off the ground and certain to be injured if they fell had Thundercracker wincing.

Thundercracker watched as Skywarp flexed his wings and tightened his arms around them. Feeling possessive and unhappy, he stepped over the edge and floated down to the safety of the ground. He landed with barely a jolt, and Perceptor and Wheeljack snuggled close to him, breathing his scent. They seemed very happy with the closeness.

“I wouldn’t have let them fall,” Skywarp insisted. Oblivious to the situation, the two scientists nestled against each other underneath a canopy of dark, wilting wings. Re-tucking both mechs snugly under his arms, he grumbled, “a little trust would be nice.”

Thundercracker quirked a lopsided smile at Skywarp, an expression he’d perfected over the years. “Honestly ‘Warp, I wouldn’t trust you with a pet, much less–”

But Skywarp was a little too close to this situation for light-hearted banter. He bristled and dropped his wings. “Whatever! You killed _your_ puppy! Does that mean you can’t be trusted with another puppy ever again?!”

Thundercracker froze for that lovely punch to the spark and his optics dilated to their widest setting.

Thundercracker’s optics dropped to his cockpit for a long moment, the precious little form still huddled inside. He swallowed thickly, struggling to regain control over his raging emotions. Oblivious, Skywarp opened his mouth to start in on the next volley and then the guttered look in Thundercracker’s eyes registered. ‘ _Oh hell,’_ and Skywarp closed his mouth and went quiet instead.

 _‘Frag me. I’m sorry about that,’_ Skywarp switched to wing speak, suddenly aware he had just crossed a line that he knew better than to cross. ‘ _I know how much that … how much Buster meant to you.’_

There was no wing-motion for ‘Buster’ in their native wing-speech, but Skywarp substituted in the motion for ‘small beloved’ and it was a most apt description of the little organic. Appeased a little for that, Thundercracker just shook his helm. His spark clenched and throbbed. With everything that had happened, he’d put Buster so far out of his mind that the reminder had been a punch to the face. He could tell by Skywarp’s drooping wings that ‘Warp hadn’t meant to hurt him that way.

Still, his spark ached inside him for the loss of his puppy. “It’s okay,” Thundercracker said, finally, choosing to forgive his thoughtless trine mate. “I'm just going to really enjoy getting back at them.”

“Count me in,” Skywarp grinned, as revenge was something he could always get behind – and speaking of revenge – his optics softened. “Do you think about him… about Starscream sometimes?”

Thundercracker winced for gut punch number two – _damn it ‘Warp!_ – and shook his helm with a snort and replied, “Hardly ever.”

The words were a complete lie, but that was one loss, along with Buster, that he didn’t want to talk about. Starscream had had many flaws, and one of them was how quick he was to betray or abandon allies when it suited him. It made him impossible to fully trust.  The distance Thundercracker had held him at by necessity doubled as a protective layer over his spark when Starscream had left for the Afterspark. But the truth was that while Starscream had been difficult to love, he had still managed to sink his devious servos deep into both their sparks. They dearly missed their lost pit-spawned glitch.

Life was hard enough right now, and his duties to his Armada and faction were immense and draining. Thundercracker couldn’t afford to grieve just yet. And so he lied outright, but he could tell he’d missed his mark when Skywarp’s optics softened.

“Yeah, same here,” Skywarp nodded sympathetically at him and looked away, “Would do anything to see him again, even if just to listen to one of his stupid rants.”

Wheeljack’s panels flickered, perhaps in response to Skywarp’s sudden upset. Nuzzling against Skywarp’s neck, Wheeljack offered comfort without the slightest hesitation, and then burrowed closer to Perceptor.

“Come on,” Thundercracker said, focusing back on there here and now. Defeated, Skywarp’s wings drooped further. They walked into the Bailiwick together, side by side, with Skywarp still holding both carrying mechs as he refused to let TC take one.

Skywarp fidgeted as he walked into their shared cell-room and stood over his berth. He settled Percy and ‘Jack together on his berth and prepared to go to battle for them. He understood where Thundercracker was coming from, but his guardian coding was relentless now. He really did want them and he wasn’t going to give them up without a fight. It was a fight he knew he was unlikely to win, and Skywarp’s wings drooped.

Thundercracker winced for ‘Warp’s melancholy look, but damn it, the truth remained. Skywarp was not responsible enough to care for them unsupervised. This little mess was proof. He had to do right by these vulnerable mechs, even if that meant upsetting his trine mate all over again.  “I’m going to assign Wheeljack to Nova Storm,” Thundercracker said finally, breaking the heavy silence.

Skywarp bristled again. “They want to stay together–”

“–but,” Thundercracker conceded a little, “I will take responsibility for Perceptor myself. We will share taking care of him until he wakes and can make his own decisions.”

Thundercracker was well aware that Skywarp’s guardian coding was active and it was unlikely he would behave himself. Not with the active way the coding pushed at a guardian's mind. If he didn’t give at least a little, then ‘Warp was likely to continue stealing them away.

Skywarp perked up immediately. Compromise was good, though he was quick to plant his flag. “He’s used to having me provide–”

“My guardian coding isn’t active,” Thundercracker preemptively agreed. “You will handle the physical part of our guardianship. But I get the final say on anything that happens to him beyond direct care. Deal?”

Thundercracker felt he could handle keeping an optic on Skywarp and one carrying mech.

Thundercracker announced his decision over the Armada comms, including Nova Storm’s new assignment. It was all much to Nova’s delight. Thrust started in on the expected whining and Acid Storm could be heard crabbing in the background until Nova agreed to share, and that was one way to solve some inter-trine tension.

Thundercracker had originally intended to let Thrust care for Perceptor. Even though he was perpetually annoying, his attention to detail and desire to please Thundercracker would have worked well in Percy’s favor.

Skywarp's active guardian code trumped that plan. Thrust was disappointed to be left out in the cold, but, oh well.

“I don’t know how you managed to avoid getting your coding activated,” Skywarp grumbled. They were staying near the carrying mechs while they waited for Nova Storm and Acid Storm to arrive and take Wheeljack.

“I tend to stay out of needless trouble,” Thundercracker replied and tweaked Skywarp’s wing with affection.

Skywarp rescued his wing with a smirk and stepped close. “You mean you are too busy following the rules to have any fun.” Flicking his wings suggestively, he brushed his lips against TC’s cheek. His wings flared a little when Thundercracker stepped closer and took his lips.

With a soft moan, Skywarp melted into that familiar embrace. It had been some time and Primus knew how much he’d missed this. Then a surly, all-too-familiar voice broke up their trine bonding moment.

“Where is my brother?” Sunstreaker was standing in the doorway of their cell-room. He looked only a little more torqued than usual.

Thundercracker looked up at the irate golden twin even as Long Haul appeared around the corner. He callously stuck his helm over Sunstreaker’s shoulder to ask, “Have you talked to Megatron yet?”

Further down the row, Thrust shouted warning, “Heads up, mechs! Prime’s CMO is heading your way!”

Thundercracker blinked. Oh right. Ratchet. One concerned-sounding _wharp_ later and Skywarp disappeared with Perceptor. That left Wheeljack squirming, his panels beginning to flash as he was now bereft of his cuddle partner.

“What do they call him? Ratchet the Hatchet?” Thrust yelled and there was an edge of glee in his vocalizer. Thundercracker had the _distinct_ impression Ratchet was getting some help navigating his way toward the Command trine’s cell-room.

_Damn it, Thrust._

Sunstreaker opened his mouth to say something rude as Long Haul was standing well within his personal space (not that the heavy duty hauler gave a frag) but the brewing trouble was interrupted as Nova Storm’s cheery visage popped between them like a bobbing cork.

Nova Storm offered a joyful “Reporting for assignment!” and then caught sight of the unhappy Wheeljack. Guardian coding engaged with a vengeance and Nova's wings flared in protective dismay. Thrusting upwards and back, the bright yellow panels _thoked_ Long Haul and Sunstreaker right in the face.

“Hey,” Sunstreaker snapped, and then stole a moment to check his face for paint blemishes while Long Haul just ignored the slight. Ignoring them, Nova Storm gathered up Wheeljack and pulled him close.

“Let me know what Megatron says,” Long Haul said as he turned on his heel-strut. He threw a pointed look in Thundercracker’s direction as he strode away.

Thundercracker frowned as Sunstreaker shouldered his way into the room and Ratchet rounded the corner with the world’s largest scowl.

Duty called.

...

“Where is my brother?” Sunstreaker demanded, but everyone was mum on the subject.

Mixmaster’s normal spot was empty. Furious, Sunstreaker had invaded the Constructicon’s territory without the slightest qualm. Striding towards the med-station like he owned the place, Sunny intended to corner Mixmaster for some answers. When he’d arrived though, he found the Constructicons mid-brawl.

Hook and Mixmaster and Scavenger were having it out, going at each other like enemies. Wading into the fray, Long Haul and Prowl were tag teaming to get everything back under control.

“I said, where is my brother?” Sunstreaker shouted into the cloud of flying green fists and pedes and threats and Prowl’s yelled orders.

Long Haul yelled around Scavenger’s servos clenched around his face plates, “None of your damned business! You aren’t active, so you aren’t involved!”

“Docfttor’s orphders!” Hook snorfled around Prowl’s fist in his mouth. It was the only way to shut him up. If the fight were a fire, Hook was the lunatic trying to put it out with _propane_.

Sunstreaker fumed. They were trying to use the coding to keep him away from his brother, and he didn’t give a frag about any of that. But the fight was hot and heavy from all sides. Even he knew better than to wade into that. Prowl had special immunity, even in a madcap moment like this, but Sunstreaker certainly didn't. Standing off to the side, he clenched and unclenched his fists as he watched Long Haul and Prowl regain control of the other three.

Luckily for Long Haul, Scavenger and Mixmaster were sane enough to be let up once they’d calmed down. Meanwhile, and flat out of patience, Prowl ended Hook’s instigating commentary by applying the seat of authority to the face of aft-clownery.

Taking hold of Hook before Long Haul could apply more punitive measures, Prowl scowled down at him. "You are threatening the plan," he murmured.

Sunstreaker should have felt concern for a statement like that, but he didn't.

"Sorry," Hook mumbled around the weight on his face, and finally shut his yap. Laying flat out on the ground now, he took his punishment like a mech wrapped around another mech's fingers; meekly with much incomprehensible muttering.

Thus the battle ended, with only the aftermath left as Prowl started into a standard lecture (Sunstreaker flinched in spite of himself, suffering flash backs from previous experiences). Those lectures were intense. Legend had it that Prowl himself had trained Optimus Prime in the art of the stern lecture. Prime had been an excellent student. His best productions included such classics as ‘ _Why You Two Shouldn’t Have Done That’_ expounded on ad nauseam and then followed by the ever painful _‘And What Have We Learned From This, Sideswipe And Sunstreaker_?’

Seeing his chance, Sunstreaker stomped in and reiterated his demands. It could have gone better. Long Haul sent him away with little more than a grunt, with his team mates backing him up with harsh, threat-filled stares. Sunstreaker knew better than to throw rocks at _that_ particular hornet’s nest.

Prowl was a little more diplomatic. “We last saw him with the Armada. Thundercracker should know where he is.”

_Fine._

After stomping his way down the main pathway, Sunstreaker barged into the command trine’s cell-room without so much as a knock. He interrupted a softer moment, not that he cared. He did note Perceptor and Wheeljack nestled on Skywarp’s berth.

He should care about what was happening to them. He knew them both. He had little interest in science and tended to tune them out as a rule. But he knew he should care about what happened to them. But it was hard to stir up any emotion other than smoldering anger anymore. The only mech he cared about now was his missing brother.

After some fierce insisting, Thundercracker finally informed him ‘Sides had left for some quiet time with some of the Armada. He'd left of his own free will, but Thundercracker would say nothing more.

Sunny had punched the wall as he left, leaving a spiderweb of cracks in his wake. It took him an hour of searching before he found them, lying together in one of the far caves. There was a tarp spread over the top of their nest. It was dirty, but the entire penitentiary was dirty, so it didn't matter so much. The only saving grace was it was a dry dirty, lacking any moisture beyond what splattered out of pipes.

Sunstreaker was heading towards them in a huff when a soft cry from his brother gave him pause. A few moments of observation and it wasn’t hard to figure out what they were up to.

Sideswipe was riding Ion Storm’s spike.

Knowing how much Sides hated when Sunstreaker intruded on his conquests, Sunny dropped down into the trash with a wince. There was a shower in his near future, that was for certain. And so he watched them for a long while, watched their rhythmic movements and listened to the soft pleasure-cries from his brother. They were non-verbal, and that was unlike Sideswipe, who loved to dirty-talk his partners.

Sunstreaker's spark ached with longing, but he stayed back. Only when they grew quiet – sleep sounds steady and the coppery scent of interface and ozone fading – did he start creeping forward.

Slow and careful, Sunstreaker hefted his sleeping brother up and strode away with him, leaving Ion Storm sleeping alone in his nest.

 

* * *

 

“It’ll be a cold day in the Pit,” Onslaught said, and he meant it. Hell would freeze over the day he let Brawl handle a team briefing. He was almost certain patience of that caliber didn’t even exist and so he held the line.

But Brawl wasn’t backing down either. “You said I could do the team briefing,” he insisted. “It was my turn after Blast Off. You insisted we both do it. You said we didn’t appreciate the work you do.”

“That was before Earth,” Onslaught countered. “That was before we lost Blast Off, and back when your processor wasn’t infected with Earth nonsense.”

Brawl looked mighty hurt over that and now Swindle looked affronted along with him. This was bad news. Though his powers of persuasion were slowly fading as he healed, Swindle still held diplomatic immunity within the team.

“You _did_ tell him that,” Swindle said, “I was there, remember? It was to be my turn after.”

It was two against two, but right now Swindle counted for at least three and a half Combaticons, and Onslaught felt cornered. “Fine,” he backed down, though only with the utmost reluctance.

Brawl roared in triumph, Swindle grinned, and Vortex shot a veiled look at Onslaught.

Squared his shoulders, Onslaught pretended not to notice. “Make it short and sweet," he warned. "I was just going to go over basic strategy anyway.”

‘Strategy’ was a strong word.

This was just a Datsun hunt after all. There wasn’t much to do but corner the silly idiot and escort him to Hook’s med-station for some much-needed medical attention. The muzzle was disturbing to see. It was of Quintesson design and reminded everyone of the horrors of captivity. No one understood why Bluestreak refused to remove it. Everyone just assumed he was afraid of Hook and the Constructicons, which was understandable.

As far as Onslaught cared, this distraction was for Swindle’s benefit, and he was eager to get going.

Brawl was eager for entirely different reasons. “I been working on this,” he assured his team mates with a huge grin. “I got visual aids an’ everything! You gonna like my strategy, boss!”

Onslaught hadn’t really believed Vortex's hasty little story. But now that he was paying more attention, there was a gleam in Brawl’s optics well and beyond his normal penchant for disruption.

Onslaught shifted on his pedes, growing more and more concerned. “Short,” he repeated himself, “was the key word to take from that. I consider this more a training exercise then any real mission.”

Ecstatic, Brawl was pawing through his subspace for his ‘visual aids’ and Onslaught was already wincing.

What the hell had he agreed to?

 

* * *

 

Thundercracker knocked again, rapping at the door to Megatron’s quarters.

It was for show only as privacy was a thread-bare concept here, but still he tried to be as respectful as possible.

Megatron was ignoring him, assuming that if this was an emergency, such politeness wouldn't have been on offer. Thundercracker had the distinct impression Glorious Leader was hoping he would just leave. He rapped again, uncharacteristically insistent.

“Is this important?” Megatron finally demanded.

His strong voice carried through the door to his quarters with ease, along with soft rumbles that could only be coming from Prime. There was a rustle of movement from deeper in the room. Megatron sounded busy, but Thundercracker didn’t want to put this conversation off.

"Yes sir," and cracking open the door, Thundercracker stepped just inside the doorway. Once upon a time, he would never have been so bold.

Things really had changed.

Anyway, Megatron seemed to appreciate boldness in his subordinates and Long Haul had been bothering him almost every hour. Thundercracker felt he couldn’t put this conversation off any further.

The soft rustle grew louder as he took a step forward and said, "I need to discuss a matter of importance. It’s about the sunken ship.” Then he froze when he realized that Megatron was with Optimus Prime on the berth.

Or rather, within him.

Megatron’s ventilation systems were straining and his plating was fully flared. His optics were bright with arousal. The focus of his attention was resting atop him, held snug in darkly-plated arms. The broken berth remained dipped down into that dish-shaped nest that seemed to reappear over and over again.

Right now it was Megatron that was reclined within it, with only his upper frame visible. His legs were spread and his knees jutted up and to the sides. His dark pedes were braced against the furthest side of the berth-nest, and he was using that leverage to excellent effect.

Helm resting in the crook of Megatron's neck and shoulder, belly supported by dark arms, Prime was appreciating his efforts. Surging back against Megatron, Prime's movements were wild and uninhibited. His soft cries were in tandem with his surging engine and Megatron's skilled thrusts. He trembled every time Megatron's spike rubbed against a deepset node.

_Oh._

That look of focused concentration had been mirrored on Skywarp’s face earlier when he’d been building his nest. Thundercracker realized the guardian coding was likely affecting Megatron’s attention right now.

This was quite the intrusion.  “–on second thought,” and Thundercracker was about to make a break for the door when Megatron called him back.

“If you were being accurate,” Megatron grunted, “and this is important, then come in and get to the point. You know I take my duty to Prime seriously. You’ve seen us far more entangled than this.”

“Yes sir,” Thundercracker said as he entered the room proper and closed the door.

Deciding to finish their current session, Megatron thrust strong and deep, grinding against Prime's ceiling node with each forward motion. It didn't take long. With a stuttered series of clicks, Prime bucked against him and his valve clenched down and a thick scent of ozone roiled up from between them.

Thundercracker noted Megatron hadn't overloaded, but that was less the point. TC watched as Prime sighed with a pleased little shiver and Megatron rolled them, so as to display a more dominant position. He pulled the half-shredded remains of a thermal blanket over them for a bit of privacy. Then Megatron pulled out, but Prime's rumble of protest gave him pause. He settled back down and another rumble-cry convinced him to re-sheath his overworked spike back into that tight little space.

"If you insist," Thundercracker heard Megatron murmur. He watched as Megatron rested the flat of one palm over Prime’s bared spike sheath and the base of his own spike in compromise.

Interfacing had never been a hidden affair with Decepticons, but Megatron had tended to avoid open interfacing. Time spent in captivity had slain such discomfiture, however. Even the carrying mechs – bare to the world – were calm and unbothered. No one did more than sneak a peek when they waddled or were carried past. Most were far more interested in what they carried then what they displayed. As dreadful as the circumstances were, these were the first youngsters in countless ages.

Thundercracker listened as Prime began to utter a soft serious of rumbles.  No less aroused for the overload, Prime lay on his back into the hollow of the berth-nest. He remained particularly enthused for attention. It was obvious to TC that he was trying to urge Megatron to move, to take him again. He seemed ravenous for such contact, and Megatron responded to his urging and began to move again. He offered a slow and gentle glide. As soaked as they were in combined fluid, the wet sounds of his thrusts soon filled the room again.

Thundercracker realized the level of trust he’d earned when Megatron only glanced at him and returned his attention to Prime. He didn’t stop with his current activity in the slightest. Only Soundwave would have been trusted amidst such a moment.

"I _said_ give me your report," Megatron rumbled, and Thundercracker's wings snapped to attention.

Into the fray rode the brave four hundred, and Thundercracker got straight to the point. “I checked with Long Haul now that he’s had a chance to look over the ship. It is is worse off than he expected. He says the original plan is still our best option. Which means he _still needs the space bridge module in your chest_.”

Such a (apologetically) pointy mouthful that was, and Megatron froze. He recalled that Long Haul had said the same, but his timidness had made it easy to disregard his misgivings. But hearing the same message from his Air Commander carried a bit more weight, forced him to take the matter seriously.

Beneath him, Prime squirmed, and a tiny frown crossed his face plate. “Click,” he noted, offering only the mildest of commentary on the sudden lack of motion.

“I see,” and Megatron ground his denta. He had to force himself to not fall back into bad habits. Snarling at the messenger would be useless here, no matter how much it might make him feel better. Thundercracker was only doing his duty.

“Click?”

“Long Haul checked with Hook,” Thundercracker dove in headfirst and rushed to lay it all out for Glorious Leader. “He is ready for you at any time.”

“I imagine they want this done soon then,” Megatron murmured and his plating clamped tight to his frame, balking at the news. Surgery without anesthetic was high on his list of things to avoid. He’d nearly bitten through his glossa the last time Hook had at him here.

_"Click.”_

Thundercracker could sense his dismay, but didn’t know what to say. He ended up just standing there with his wings threatening to droop.

Megatron staved off another flinch when he realized his fear must have been visible on his face. “Tell him I will be there … shortly,” he said finally. There was no other option, and thus there was no point in drawing this out. The sooner this was finished the better he would feel. No, actually, that wasn’t right. The sooner this was over the worse he would feel and his plating clamped back down again. If he could sweat, he’d be drenched.

“Click!”

"So impatient," Megatron huffed. He had to force his spike to re-pressurize as he was so worried now about cutting and welding and hurting. It was hardly Prime’s fault.

Thundercracker turned to leave a moment later, though not without a last, apologetic glance over his shoulder, to see Megatron returning to task. Megatron even nuzzled reassurance down to his confused consort.

Something still felt off about the situation, and Thundercracker's sense of unease only grew.

 

* * *

 

It went down _exactly_ as Onslaught feared it would.

“Behold,” Brawl shouted dramatically, “The wild Datsun in his natural habitat!”

The picture was of Bluestreak trying to eat around his mouth gag, optics dilated wide like some kind of startled woodland creature. The picture had been snapped the instant Bluestreak realized Brawl was watching.

Strategic, even. Onslaught was kind of impressed. Then Brawl pulled out a piece of tarp, marked with crude drawings of the penitentiary. A rough-looking tactical map complete with written commentary had Onslaught squinting... _where those stick figures?_

Yes indeed.

Four of them, all with anatomically-incorrect large stick figure guns. They were chasing after a frantic stick figure Datsun with stick figure door-wings, complete with little squiggle-marks to show they were flapping.

This was standard Brawl, honestly. But the gleam in the murder machine's optics and the way he was watching Onslaught was giving more and more credence to Vortex’s claim.

Swindle couldn’t hear his team mates over the sounds of his own snickering. Onslaught was staring, looking like some sort of trapped animal.

“That’s … different,” Vortex said while darting a glance at Onslaught. A look that amounted to _end this so we can all go back to sanity_ while Brawl warmed up to his captive audience.

He really _was_ trying hard. Unfortunately for him, the harder one tries at humor, the more elusive the funny becomes. It didn't help matters that Onslaught had never laughed at any point _in his life._

'What if I don't have that module installed,' Onslaught waved at Vortex in Hand, behind his back so Brawl couldn’t see.

‘Some people laugh _every day_ ,’ Vortex waved back at him. No mercy from this corner. Just laugh, damn you!

Feeling like he was under a micron scanner, Onslaught swallowed and gave it an honest try. The sound he made landed somewhere between a nervous cough and a cyber-cat hacking up a furball.

_This is ridiculous._

...and at that exact moment, out in the Courtyard, Thundercracker was thinking the exact same thing.

In an attempt to appease the Hatchet, Thundercracker had ordered his Armada to bring their assigned carrying mechs (all but Sideswipe as he was still awake and held freedom for his own movements) to the Courtyard for some fresh(er) air and so that Ratchet could see them. It had sort of worked, but then Ratchet started demanding Optimus Prime too, and that was something Thundercracker couldn't do for him.

Thundercracker stood over the thermal blankets they'd laid out over the trash for the sleeping mechs and frowned. Hardly adequate. Glancing around for any ideas, he caught sight of Scavenger sulking in one of the corners of the Bailiwick. The lurking Constructicon kept glancing over in his direction, as if trying to catch his optic.

Sensing an opportunity, Thundercracker idled over to where Scavenger was moping. Scavenger waited for him, but what he wanted to speak of was not nearly so innocent as Thundercracker's own little problem.

"The ship plan _will_ work," Scavenger insisted. He looked intense as it was clearly a hot topic for him. He didn't wait for Thundercracker to reply or ask questions, and stepped closer instead. "Prowl told Hook to cause a scene," Scavenger hissed softly, and his optics darted from side to side. " _Prowl_ wants Lord Megatron to report to Hook for surgery."

"Long Haul doesn't know," Scavenger whispered.

Mixmaster's soft apology for the previous day's upset had said more to Scavenger then Mix had intended, and now he was relaying that little tidbit to a mech he knew would be... discreet about things. Having done all he felt he could, Scavenger stepped back a pace. His darting optics and twisting fingers made it clear he had nothing more to say on the subject, though he didn't have to say more.

"That's ... good to know," Thundercracker said as now his misgivings over that little situation had a name; _Prowl._

Scavenger shuffled his pedes awkwardly, feeling something of a traitor and Thundercracker shot him a kindly look and flexed his wings. Raising his voice, he soothed over the tense moment (and provided cover for the secret conversation) by loudly mentioning how _nice_ it would be if the carrying mechs had a table and some comfy deck chairs and maybe some of those umbrella things - hey, would a pool be out of the question? - and then he watched with satisfaction as Scavenger perked up and scurried away to see what he could find. Mixmaster may be weird and Hook might be an unmitigated, murderous aft-clown and Long Haul was surly, but Scavenger remained a gem of a Constructicon.

"Pool?" Nautilator asked, antenna all aflutter. That word was relevant to his interests, but Thundercracker waved the Seacon off. "For the carrying mechs, only. Still a little warm out here. They could use the opportunity to take a dip if they want."

Nautilator retorted that _he_ could use an opportunity for a dip, being an aquatic frame-type and all, but TC had already tuned him out, mind churning over other, more critical problems.

Among them, how to explain to Ratchet that he had to get used to the idea that the other Autobots may not be constantly within reach. They weren't prisoners, after all. Currently, Ratchet was alternating between fussing over Jazz, Wheeljack, and Perceptor and fending off repeated offers to hold the still un-named newborn.

“When is he going to let us hold him?” Nova Storm complained, and the others just shrugged.

Ratchet was particularly hard-pressed to keep them away. As the newborn was a seeker frame, the Armada had full-on adopted him as one of their own. They tried to watch over him as best as could be managed with such an aggressive foster carrier.

When Ratchet had felt comfortable enough to disconnect the newborn from his internal systems, he’d had a crowd of onlookers gasping at every little wire removed. Irritating, but no amount of threats had chased them off. Even now the admirers were nearby, though to be fair, there wasn’t much to do around Uytis right now. Feeling set upon, Ratchet was caught between protecting the youngster and letting him play a little. The youngster was keen to explore his currently dark universe.

“The little guy sure is happy for somebody that can’t see,” Acid Storm said, edging closer and closer to Ratchet for a better peek.

“He has no idea what he is missing,” Thrust said with a shrug. He was keeping an optic on his Air Commander, quick to respond to the slightest hint of any need or summons. He still had his eye on joining the command trine, though it appeared Thundercracker was serious when he said he wasn’t making any hasty decisions right now.

All attempts at coaxing the little guy from Ratchet had ended in failure, though Primus knew how they’d all tried. Only Thundercracker had been allowed to touch the little mech, once, the barest brush of delighted fingers over tiny little back-plates, all while under threat of death by wrench, clenched by whitening knuckles.

"The Combaticons just flushed the Datsun," Nautilator reported from his perch on a trash-drift, peering down at the elite squad. Other interested mechs soon joined the gawkers.

"This is the same mech that used to hang out in Thunderhead Pass," Nova Storm reminded them. He stared down through the slats, watching as Bluestreak dodged and twisted and weaved around them. He was surprisingly spry and seemed to keep ahead of the elite team with some ease. "He has crazy aim."

"I remember that," Thundercracker called from his position near Ratchet. Skywarp was trying to wrestle Percy away from the good doctor, who didn't want 'Warp to handle Percy. Good luck with that, Ratchet.

"Heard he used to be in special OPs," Thrust said.

Then Nautilator clacked his claws when the Combaticons finally cornered their prey. "Oh, this is going to be good."

 

* * *

 

“We got him!”

Swindle sounded enthusiastic as the Combaticons pile-dived atop their quarry.

Bluestreak went down hard, buried beneath heavy war-frames with a groan of despair. Whatever happened to free will and free agency and not having Combaticons grabbing at every inch of his plating?

They had just slapped cuffs on every one of his limbs when there was a massive roar from above. Something big and heavy with lots of pointy bits charged through and shocked Combaticons went flying in all directions.

“Me Slag,” Slag said proudly, “Help him Bluestreak.”

Bluestreak, now dangling upside-down over Slag’s massive head-fringe, stared at his rescuer with massively huge optics. Hope was reborn as he spread his door-wings and his expression brightened.

Help was a strong word. Slag was in no condition for a fight of any type, and his pedes were trembling from the strain of holding up his and Bluestreak’s weight. But the powerhouse was used to pain of various types, and the long days of rest and Hook’s complaint-filled (but very competent otherwise) repairs had done wonders for his pedes.

Bluestreak flashed his rescuer a huge grin and held on for dear life.

_Back in the game._

Slag stagger-hopped away, smacking Swindle across the aft with his tail (it was the lightest hit Slag had ever given anyone for any reason) which sent the Jeep-former sailing. Bluestreak’s wings were flapping with the equivalent of triumphant laughter. No unwanted medical procedures from demented Decepticons for him today!

_Ha!_

“This means war,” Onslaught roared from where he was sprawled underneath Brawl.

Brawl leaned way over, his face popping into view from between his own backwards legs as he said, “Hey Onslaught?”

Onslaught flinched, Vortex shot him a look that screamed _just_ _end this for Primus’ sake_ and his vocalizer dropped an octave. “…yes?”

“You ever hear the one about the–”

Brawl was still talking. Onslaught could tell because his visor was still flashing, but Onslaught couldn't hear him over the sounds of his own cringing and Vortex's pointed staring. Oblivious, only Swindle kept his optics on the ball. He yelled after the retreating Bluestreak, “You are overreacting! It can’t hurt worse than a gunshot wound!”

Not helping, Swindle.

“Haven’t heard that one,” Onslaught heard Vortex say, but Brawl was still staring at him, and he took a deep breath.

Team cohesion, a morale building exercise. That’s what this was. Mechs laughed all the time. It was a pleasant sensation, he was told. A harmless pastime. Laughing was good for the spark. He could do this. “No, Brawl,” Onslaught answered slow and careful-like, “I have not.”

“So,” Brawl launched into his routine, “Piranacon, Overlord, and Soundwave walked into a–”

Time seemed to stop. Brawl was speaking, but the words didn’t make any sense. Then Brawl stopped talking and stared, shoulders hunched in anticipation and Onslaught assumed that was his signal.

Onslaught took in a deep breath, but only a tiny _wheeeeeze_ escaped. The sound was forced, as if uttered from a mechanism unaccustomed to such expressions whilst desperately trying to appease some insane underling's need for an opportunity at lots of tailpipe.

“I think I get it,” Vortex blinked. “But why did Overlord transform into a rubber raft?”

Meanwhile, the concerning noises from Onslaught's general vicinity continued while Brawl stared with unsure eyes. Was that a laugh? Or was Onslaught choking? Should he get Hook? He wasn’t sure, but just to be on the safe side he started whacking the mortified Onslaught on his back plates.

"It was a stupid joke," Brawl comforted his seizing squad leader, then crashed that comfort-ship like the Hindenburg with his next words, "I got allota better ones."

“The target is getting away,” Swindle shouted. He began hobbling after the escaping duo, “and why am _I_ the only one even _trying_ around here?”

Onslaught groaned, but at least Swindle's limp was less pronounced.

That was something.

 ...

Across the lower reaches of the penitentiary, a massive beast-mode was loping across the ground. A human of scientific bent would have recognized the basic form as a _Triceratops horridus_ , before bursting into flames for the atmosphere.

“Slag feet hurt,” Slag confided to the rider across his shoulders. “But Slag help good friend Bluestreak.”

Still cuffed at the servos and pedes, Bluestreak was mutely holding on for dear life as best he could, though his wings were flapping in excited gratitude for the rescue. Clinging to his back, Bluestreak’s knuckles were clenched white as he bounced up and down on the massive Dynobot.

“Very good friend Bluestreak,” Slag added with the emphasis on _friend_.

Bluestreak nodded agreeably. Sure, fine, whatever. Honestly he wasn’t picky in the slightest. He was up for anything, just so long as it wasn’t anywhere near the damned Constructicons. Or Combaticons. Especially not Megatron.

“–very, very good friend–” Slag was just making sure. Have to be clear about these things after all…

“Slag!” Snarl’s horrified roar penetrated the gloom. “You will hurt your pedes!”

Instantly furious for his brother’s disapproving tone, Slag roared back, “Helping good friend Bluestreak! You have own friend! Slag want friend too!”

 _Slag want tight spaces_ , was what he meant and that wasn’t lost on anyone who spent any time with him. “It doesn’t work that way!” Pipes shouted down after the rampaging hobble-monster.

Alarmed, Bluestreak hurriedly corrected the assumption.

No, no, that was _totally_ how it worked, and he gave Snarl a suggestive grin that left little to the imagination. One had to be clear about these things, after all. And to be honest, he wouldn’t mind a celebratory roll in the hay anyway.

Most mechs tended to stay away from him, avoiding him or pushing him away for how annoying he could be. This was different. This was new. He was riding a  _Triceratops horridus_ across a sunken hell-scape while pursued by a elite Decepticon team. Bluestreak set his wings.

_Bring it on._

...

“Ha!” Nova Storm laughed as Bluestreak made yet another getaway.

Everyone was gathered to watch the Datsun hunt now. Bluestreak was smashing all expectations and putting up one hell of a resistance. He'd been leading the Combaticons on a merry chase, and he wasn't done yet.

Meanwhile, Thundercracker was overseeing the carrying mech's move to their own little pavilion overlooking the dismantling of the Quintesson carrier, currently on hiatus. Along with that less-then-interesting view, the Pavilion now sported lounge chairs complete with little tarp-umbrellas to keep the direct starlight at bay (tamed as it was, the light was still pretty strong and only pleasant across metal mesh in short stretches).

Scavenger was nothing if not a swift worker, and the Pavilion was becoming more and more welcoming as embellishments were added to it. The latest addition was _most_ welcome.

As fascinating as the Datsun hunt was, Ratchet and Sideswipe were distracted by said new addition, and their heads kept swiveling back and forth between Scavenger and the wild scene down below. They couldn’t help it; topside was too interesting.

Ion Storm and Sunstreaker were hovering nearby, and were shooting daggers at each other. Both were covered in fresh dents and cuts, and it was obvious something had happened between them. Sideswipe, meanwhile, ignored their rivalry and was too busy watching what Scavenger was up to.

Scavenger had just finished installing a decent-sized pool topside and was busy filling it up. The pool he’d welded together was made entirely out of otherwise unusable scrap, complete with sparkling-sized waterslide – just in case. Now the carrying mechs were staring at the beautiful sight with covetous optics, unaware that the glorious gift was entirely for them.

Currently Sideswipe was busy plotting with Ratchet on how to invade said delicious coolness (Ratchet was desperately trying to remember how to write a prescription for “large-sized pool taken TID”) while Prowl stood off to the side, looking satisfied and watching over the sleeping mechs.

Scavenger was almost finished filling it up with deliciously cool fluid and the Armada was clustered around to defend the sanctity of its watery goodness from marauding Seacons attempting to lay claim to the depths.

“I asked Scavenger to set this up for the carrying mechs,” Thundercracker said while blocking Nautilator from entering the make-shift pool. _Not for you,_ he didn’t say, but the way his wings were stretched to block the sight was telling enough, so were his hands on his hips.

To be honest, under normal circumstances he would have allowed the Seacon to enjoy himself, but the mech tended to get rather territorial in waterways. When Sideswipe had wandered over for a closer look and tried to dip a pede into the water, Nautilator had lunged forward and snapped his claws possessively.

Sideswipe had backed off instantly.

Sunstreaker had taken offense, of course.

The Rainmakers had backed the golden twin up for once, and Thundercracker had to intercede to avoid being served lobster pate for dinner. But after the fifth time his attempts to explain the concept of _right-of-way_ to Nautilator met with a blank look and near-reflexive snicker-snaps of still-possessive claws, he decided banishment was the better option.

Clearly, Nautilator didn’t agree. “But I want to swim too,” he howled and it was _so_ true that life wasn’t fair.

“Not while the carrying mechs are out here,” Thundercracker said. His wings snapped, and his Armada all straightened around him.

That noise meant business.

Too bad Nautilator hadn’t received that particular memo. Instead of obeying he lashed his powerful tail back and forth, trying to intimidate TC into backing off. Unfortunately, he only managed to jostle Percy’s crude lounge chair. The chair buckled and dumped the sleeping mech out of his comfortable seat. Reaction times were _amazing_ as no less than four sleek flight builds collided into each other while darting to his rescue.

Too slow.

With a _wharp_ , Skywarp re-materialized with Perceptor safely in his arms. His expression darkened into a thundercloud as Percy thrashed fearfully in his arms, frightened for the feel of falling. Guardian coding active, the squirming galvanized him, even though Percy was entirely safe now.

Well aware that torquing off Skywarp held _consequences_ that could materialize in any number of creative ways, Nautilator backed off instantly. “Sorry!” he called, and even managed to look rather sheepish. It was more a display then any true feeling.

Nautilator was modeled after a lobster, and lobsters lived in _water_.

Hunching down a bit, he continued his submissive display, but straightened almost immediately after and brandished his claws again. Normally he was never this aggressive, but he’d hadn’t had a good swim in _ages_ after the stupid Quints didn’t care enough to provide him with water no matter how he’d begged and begged, and really, who cares about stupid Autobots that couldn’t handle a few bumps, stronger mechs get to swim where and how they wanted, that’s how it worked, and if they didn’t like it they could take their bare afts back to the showers–

Thundercracker leaned down into Nautilator’s face. “I said _no_.”

Nautilator's stricken face turned towards the semi-deep pool, so lovely and so glimmering, splashing so seductively at him. It wasn't fair. He was an aquatic frame, and he needed water and he didn't want to share. Turning back to the Air Commander, he did the only thing he felt he could do in this situation. Brandishing his claws, he hunkered down and prepared for battle.

" _Make me_."

* * *

 

“Oh come on Blue!” Pipes shouted from his own seat atop Snarl, who was loping after his erstwhile brother. Whenever they got close though, Slag would swung his tail threateningly at the added pursuit, and Snarl had to dodge to avoid being punted.

The situation was becoming a circus, but nobody was prepared to back down. For the Combaticons, it was a matter of honor. Snarl and Pipes were trying to protect their friends, or at the very least, Slag's pedes. For Bluestreak, it was a matter of not having Hook having at him, and for Slag... well, Slag had his own problems.

They were starting to look exhausted though; Blue for the hunt and Slag for the extended run, but both were still game to keep fleeing, though Slag really needed to have stopped over a joor ago. But he was nothing if not bull-helmed and refused to listen to any well-meaning shouts or angry team-mates hurling vitriol. Speaking of angry team mates, Snarl yelled after his retreating brother, “He’s just using you for a mount!”

‘Epic mount,’ Bluestreak waved over his helm in Hand and his door-wings twitched and every Seeker watching from above started laughing at the lewd wing flick. _Woo_ that one was not meant for public consumption. Not to mention that seeing a Praxian door-wing making that particular motion was _fantastic_.

“I didn’t know they could turn that way,” Ion Storm called from the pool, sounding impressed.

Glancing down, Ion Storm offered to take Wheeljack from Thrust, but Thrust just waved him off.

"Get your own," Thrust joked with him, but his arms tightened all the same.

Nova Storm had wanted to watch the chase a little more closely, and Thrust had agreed to watch over Wheeljack. Now 'Jack was in his arms, helm down with his panels glowing in happiness for the cool fluid sloshing around him. He wasn't the only one deliriously happy with the pool.

Nautilator, too, was beside himself with joy. Floating in the splashing water, he flicking his tail back and forth to create a little whirlpool, turning himself in little circles, his face and legs and tail fully submerged with only his back above the water line. Trussed up to the ninth degree, he was no longer in a position to cause trouble and was currently functioning as a buoyant drink table.

Compromise was good.

Then the mostly happy scene topside was shattered by Ratchet’s cry of horror.

The newborn had finally figured out what his turbines were good for, though the rudimentary fundamentals of navigation and direction were unknown to him. His high-pitched squeaks of sheer joy were offset by Ratchet's high-pitched howls of panic.

The little mech jetted away with a _poot_ and - alerted by Ratchet's shriek of panic - the entire Armada darted after him, leaping into the air and jetting towards the little guy in a frantic mass, desperate to keep him from running into things. An impact could be fatal for the delicate little frame. Thankfully, Nova Storm reached him before disaster could strike, but had a little trouble grabbing hold.

Ratchet was running behind them and calling, but the newborn was too young to heed such things. The feel of wind under his tiny wings was exhilarating, and then a bigger air current and a concerned electromagnetic field caressed him. Not his carrier, but the newborn still instinctively reacted to the adult’s air currents, and Nova Storm transformed into jet-mode to better guide the youngster in the wake of his wings and ended up taking the little one on an inaugural flight.

The two of them circled the Courtyard several times, turning and dipping and in his sleek jet-mode Nova looked for all the world like some sort of aerial dolphin guiding an infant in his water wake.

Finally Nova Storm heeded Ratchet's panicked calls (and his Air Commander's sharp look) and took hold of the little one and landed (as far from Ratchet as possible). As everyone headed towards him, Nova finally had a chance to really hold the youngster. "Bitty wings!" he crooned and tickled them, much to the infant's delight. Alas, the happy moment didn't last.

Ratchet arrived a moment later and Nova was forced to hand the little one back. Ratchet was shaking for the upset, and Skywarp actually dared pat him on the shoulder, only to vanish with a _wharp_ when the Hatchet looked in his direction.

Ratchet hadn’t actually intended to whack him, but it was understandable why Skywarp was a little skittish.

Back at the pool, Sideswipe had had his fill of splashing everyone in the face plates and was content now to sit back in the fluid, head tilted back. There was a hint of movement from Sunstreaker behind him, and his arms were wrapped around his brother.

There may or may not have been a flashy golden spike buried into his valve, but if there was one there, he was enjoying it immensely. Nearby, Ion Storm bit his lip and forced himself to stand back and let his counterpart provide the comfort and pleasure that _he_ would normally provide.

Thankfully there was a lot happening to help provide further distraction. “Hey,” Skywarp shouted after Bluestreak, “Which back-stabbing lame-wing taught you Wingspeak?”

Skywarp’s noisy shouts didn't startle the two mechs settled into the pool with their helms nestled on either side of Skywarp’s shoulder pauldrons (Thrust had wisely let Skywarp take Wheeljack without a fight). They were very used to his noise. Ion Storm attempted to take one of them, but Skywarp mimed shooting him in the helm with a viciously playful grin, and he, like Thrust, chose to heed that particular warning.

Across from him, Nova Storm snorted, hands on hips. “His wing vernacular is particular to Vos, so probably one of us.”

Beside Nova, Acid Storm dropped his fists onto his hips and shook his helm. “Terrible.”

“I wonder if they are sensitive like ours?” Ion Storm asked while stepping into the pool, hovering near the delighted Sideswipe. “Could you pet them to overload?”

Ion’s musing was interrupted when Acid and Nova shouted encouragement as they watched the high-speed chase below. Slag took a corner and a strategic tail-whack send Vortex sailing. In an impressive maneuver, Vortex transformed mid-hurtle, catching himself and turning away towards the opposite stairway, intending to cut the truants off at the next level down.

“Only when he overloads,” Acid Storm answered the question in an off-servo sort of way.

Nova and Ion nodded agreeably as they stared down at the frenetic scene below. Long kliks passed. Then what Acid said actually registered and Nova Storm and Ion Storm whirled and Acid Storm clamped a servo over his own mouth and clammed right up.

_Too late._

“It was _you_ ,” Nova Storm accused while Acid Storm tried and failed to pretend he was innocently confused.

“Wha?” Thrust asked.

Skywarp turned and shouted, “Is there anyone you _haven’t_ fragged, you traitor?!”

“Hey, whatever,” Nova Storm called back, circling back around from outrage to circling the wagons for his brothers, a full circle. “You have two grounders _right now_. And Praxian door-wings still count. They _are_ kind of cute.”

“Extraneous circumstances-”

“-that’s _bullslag_ -”

“They’ve cornered him again!”

"-and he's down!"

"Now it's on to Hook. That poor fragger looks _freaked_."

 

* * *

 

<You have some reason to suspect the Constructicons of foul play?> Megatron asked, reading between the lines.

On the other end of the comm line, Thundercracker demurred. He'd finally worked out what was bothering him about the surgery situation, though Scavenger's murmured hints had helped point him in the right direction. The truth was, he wasn't willing to kick up a hornet's nest, not for something that hadn't even happened. Not for a few whispered words and his own suspicions. But a few words uttered into Onslaught's audial while the harried-looking mech dragged a thrashing Bluestreak to the med-station had assured him that the Combaticons would have his back if there was a problem.

Thundercracker was just being prudent. <Nothing to be concerned about,> he insisted. <It's just I'd feel better if I was there with you for your surgery. Onslaught agrees with me and plans on keeping guard as well.>

<Very well,> Megatron agreed, disquieted with the conversation. He put two and two together easily enough and he couldn't blame the tactician for wanting him dead. The situation with Prowl needed to be dealt with, though it promised to be a delicate thing. The Constructicons were firmly in Prowl's corner, and he couldn't be sure he would come out on top if they had to choose between him and Prowl.

Ending the connection, Megatron settled back on the edge of the berth to brood. He was scheduled to go in for surgery bright and early the next morning, and he was dreading it. A little ways away, still nestled in his berth-nest hollow, Prime was restless too, curling and turning on the berth. They’d been interfacing for joors, and he honestly had no further fluid to offer.

It was shaping up to be a long night.

Rubbing at his nasal ridge with a finger, his optics alighted on the book he'd tossed in the corner. Pulled from Wreck-Gar's bag of treasures, he'd never heard of Yoga before, and had little interest in the subject. He'd read it through for boredom, and some of it seemed interesting, though most of it was ... meh. He hadn't bothered to give it any further thought after he'd tossed it away.

But Prime was restless, he was restless, and some of the positions inside might help stretch Prime out a little, get the oil flowing again. Being prone for so long had to be bothering him.

Balking a little, he pondered the idea some more, and then the berth rustled again. Prime twisted around and rumbled in dissatisfaction, either unhappy for immobility or (far more likely) just missing Megatron's weight atop him. That noise helped Megatron make up his mind to give it a try. What would it hurt to entertain a few stretches?

Just so long as no one saw him...

Gathering Prime up, Megatron pulled him down onto the ground and dumped the book down next to them. Opening to a random page, he glanced over the positions of the two figures, one thin and one not, and then worked himself and Prime into one of the simpler poses. It involved having Prime's back pressed to his front, and then he leaned back and arched his back, tilting his helm down until he could feel all of his joints stretching. Holding Prime in this way, he had to assume the same angle and they held that pose for one astro-second and Megatron was careful to watch his reaction.

Prime _loved_ it.

Encouraged, he tried another pose, and then did another, and another. Several pages into the stances, and one of them must have jostled Prime _just so_ , for a bottle of something tumbled out of his subspace and rolled across the floor. Megatron blinked in surprise, realizing Prime must have accessed his subspace by accident in this sleep.

It was both accident and reminder; he'd been intending to go through Prime's pockets, so to speak.

He wasn't expecting to find much and now seemed as good a time as any. Lifting him carefully, Megatron returned Prime to the berth and settled him down. Triggering someone else's subspace wasn't terribly difficult, as they all functioned the same way. Plugging into Prime's medical port, he aligned his own subspace frequency with Prime's, and then there was nothing more to do then to start rifling. While reaching inside, he felt Prime startle for the invasion. “Easy,” he murmured and laid his other hand across Prime's chest to calm him while his other hand continued its exploration.

Casting around, Megatron blinked for the odd feel of things. “You have a massive subspace,” he muttered and then snorted. Ah yes, right. Prime had an entire _trailer_... now if only he could coax Prime to subspace it, things would be much easier. He pondered the problem while Prime squirmed, and he watched as a small frown crept across Prime's sleeping face plates, watched as a very familiar stubbornness crept into his fields.

_No, that was not going to happen._

“If you insist,” Megatron murmured and went back in after the hidden stash within reach. He was surprised when his first foray yielded handfuls of energon bars. Shamelessly he paused to tear into one, too eager for real energy to hold back. He tore into the package with fingers that almost trembled and took a massive bite, enjoying the taste as only a mech gone without for too long could. Then he fed the last few bites to Prime. Chewing through another one and then another, he went back into Prime's pockets with vigor.

This time he came back with a half-filled entire container of energon, medical grade. Not the best tasting, but very welcome! Next, he pulled out a pack of energon goodies. They were half-crushed, the sort of ration one might find in a backwater part of some rim world market, but still. Another rifle and he pulled out a pack of medical supplies and antiseptics and … wait …were those... painkillers?! Oral and syringe forms. Generic brands with wrinkled paper and aged labels, but still good. They would do much to ease his otherwise miserable upcoming surgery.

“ _You_ ,” Megatron murmured, nibbling at an audial, pleased when Prime ducked his helm and huffed. “Are a beautiful truck.”

Then Megatron found said beautiful truck’s _serious_ energon stash. The first drum of nucleon grade energon rolled out, one of many, originally meant to power the egg-ship to Cybertron.

His roar of delight was heard by half the penitentiary.

 

* * *

 

The next morning arrived far too quickly, and as promised, Thundercracker and Onslaught escorted Megatron to his appointment.

There was a long and _very_ awkward moment when they informed Hook they would be staying for the surgery, and refused to budge. Long Haul had stared at them, confused at first, but then he felt Prowl's disappointment across the gestalt bond and Hook's vaguely guilty visage, and frowned.

"Going to go check on Prowl," was Long Haul's excuse to leave the tense room, and he strode away with an unhappy glint on his face. Scavenger shot Hook a pointed look as he followed after Long Haul, and Hook scowled.

Well aware of the dark undertones around him, Megatron handed the medical supplies, including the painkillers, over to Hook without a word. Unsurprisingly, the surgery went off without a hitch, and Megatron awoke a few joors later sans the space bridge module.

Now he was heading back to his quarters and doing everything in his power not to wobble. “Urm,” Megatron groaned, then clenched his denta. He hadn’t meant to let his pain escape, but he was coming down from the painkillers, and he’d refused to let Hook administer more. His surgical welds were starting to hurt, but now his pride kept him from breaking down and returning to the med-station for more.

Thundercracker was escorting him while under the guise of giving him a report on the sunken ship. Megatron ignored the concerned look. He focused instead on the update, grateful for the distraction. He was having trouble focusing on TC’s voice for the residual shock.

What he’d endured had been so much worse than receiving emergency medical attention after a battle. There was something to be said for shock from fluid loss. Going from normal to stitched horror was much harder to endure, and only his pride had kept his back on the surgery table; they hadn’t had to tie him down - but it had been a near thing.

He was still breathing hard.

Hunched over, he was walking slowly and his face plates were shockingly pale. He was patched up and welded closed, but there was fresh internal fluid beading along the weld lines and he was trembling.

Thundercracker opened the door to his quarters for him, and he wasn’t even offended for that little gesture of kindness.

It was an actual door, as this was the commandant’s quarters before Overlord had laid claim to it. Although the sliding mechanism was broken and the small window had been shot out at some point, the room was still the best privacy that could be had in the penitentiary.

Megatron entered the room slowly. He could hear clicking inside, and Ion Storm stood up from his protective spot near Prime. “He didn’t want me to touch him,” Ion Storm said apologetically over Prime's insistent, upset clicks.

Megatron waved off the apology, swallowing back a persistent desire to purge. “Thank you for watching him.”

Thundercracker and Ion Storm left a moment later, though hesitantly and only after Megatron insisted he wanted privacy.

Laying on his back on the berth, Megatron winced for the flash of pain across his upper abdominals. He splayed his fingers over his upper chest as he settled, and Prime quieted as soon as his scent drifted over. Then the entire berth shook. Prime was struggling, trying to get nearer to him. Even in his dreaming-state he was trying to reach his injured mate. There was a nudge from a concerned field, and once again, Prime was trying to comfort him.

“Mmh,” Megatron groaned. “That’s my job.”

He reached out and stroked the concerned truck as Prime drew close enough to touch and then Prime nuzzled into him again. With a deep sigh, he let Prime’s strong fields overpower his own, let Prime's calm help wash away his upset. He needed to regain his strength. He needed to sleep. Tomorrow would be a huge day; the sunken ship would be brought out of the ground. Once reassembled, the real work would begin.

Slowly, the tension drained from his frame and Megatron closed his optics. A few calming breaths later, and twinges of amusement began winding through Prime's fields. Soft chuffing had him opening his optics and looking over at Prime, curious for the touch of playfulness in his fields. Prime was smiling in his sleep. “Are you having a good dream, Prime?”

The question was rhetorical, as Prime couldn't answer him. But the smile splashed across his face spoke for itself. This was far better than previous; normally Prime suffered from particularly bad dreams if abandoned. Captivity alone had given him plenty of nightmare fuel. The violent star hadn't helped, as those first few days of dreaming had been harsh. It was no surprise that nightmares followed after.

Megatron was staying close by, and as the cycles passed the distress from the heat faded to memory and Prime grew calmer. Today seemed to be a good day, and so the answer to Megatron's question was yes.

Yes, he _was_ having a good time.

Rumbling in his sleep, Prime’s every line whispered of amusement. It was clear that whatever the content of his dreams, they were good ones. For Megatron, it felt like vindication, and desire wound around possession and back again. Pulling Prime a little closer, Megatron nuzzled him. “I am pleased to see you so content, though I wish I could perceive what pleases you so.”

He’d never admit it, but he hoped it was him.

Comfort began to steal across his frame, helped in no small part by the lull of the deep blue sea rolling over and over him, and Megatron curled over a little further and burrowed against Prime. A few breaths more and he finally drifted off to recharge.

…

_Optimus Prime's universe was forged from dreams._

_Some of them were memory-files, moments captured in time; dusty and distant as offered from his deepest core. Sometimes his memory fluxes had him standing amidst battles, and those were harsher moments. Sometimes they were vibrant, newer dreams of his own unconscious design, sometimes pleasant, sometimes not._

_Drifting through a kaleidoscope of color and shape and form, he remained untouched but capable of touching and molding that which swirled around him. It wasn’t long until he learned he could control these dreams, could change the outcomes of these harsh memories within this mindscape-world. The mental flail was pulled from the dark recesses, and each painful barb addressed as he re-wrote the worst of his mistakes and losses. Soon he was saving everyone he’d ever lost and then some, remaking reality with the easy grace of some god-being._

_It helped, however, that any of his cries of dismay were swiftly tended, surely by some interested party in the waking world. It was difficult to remain fearful with such a strong electromagnetic field nudging comfort at him, and his dreams grew more and more pleasant as time passed._

_Once his own mastery of his mind was discovered, his nightmares became brief as any harsh landscape had him wielding his power for good. On and on Optimus dreamed, weaving his own version of reality._

_In the theater of his own mind the war never happened and Bumblebee, Roller, Zeta, a restored Shockwave, and all of his old friends awaited him at Maccadam's Old Oil House._

_Most often –_ _like now –_ _he found himself amid peaceful times. Sitting back in the captain’s chair of the small shuttle he’d once commandeered for a sojourn to visit Omega Supreme, he relaxed with a sigh. His abdominals were flat and his bright blue and red plating was back and his protective face plate was securely attached and all was well within his mindscape. Better than well, actually. This trip had been filled with quiet contemplation, and was one of his favorite memory-places for the deep sense of peace found within._

_Although and currently, Optimus’ dreamscape was a little less peaceful for all the Megatrons residing within it._

_“I don’t understand what is happening, Autobot,” Megatron’s rich, dramatic voice filled the shuttle’s main cabin, “But this farce ends now.” Holding aloft two elegant blades, his face was highlighted by two dark bands of black, accentuating his handsome face plates. Frowning arrogantly, he began to charge towards the seated Optimus._

_Standing nearby, the most vicious of the assembled Megatrons – this one boxy with harsh angles and ridiculously oversized cannon – drew up tall and shouted, “Yes! Tear him apart!”_

_“This is pointless,” another Megatron snapped over his shoulder. “We have all attempted to overpower him, all to no avail!” This one was dark silver, burnished and covered with scars. Most of his plate-lines ended in sharp blades. His fingers were pointed blade-talons and his denta reminiscent of sharkticons and their ilk, and of them all, his optics seemed the most cunning._

_Across from him and standing the closest to Optimus, the Megatron with the Autobot insignia on his chest plates pinched at his nasal sensor with a pained expression._

_Optimus remained unconcerned. Watching the oncoming charge, he knew in some instinctive way that he was dreaming, and dreams could be funny things. They were also harmless things, and he knew down to his core that there was no threat here._

_“That won’t work,” the Autobot Megatron warned his doppelgänger._

_His assessment appeared accurate as the charge faltered and arrogant Megatron couldn’t connect with his swords. They clattered right through the amused-looking Prime._

_Chuckling, Optimus just rolled with the crazy, slapping arrogant Megatron’s aft as he passed, to his adversaries’ intense displeasure. More and more Optimus was treating these disruptive figments of his imagination as his own private amusement props. After all, in dreams such indulgences were utterly harmless…_

_“This is intolerable!” Megatron’s arrogant voice lost some of its luster for frustration. “What in the name of the Allspark is happening here?!”_

_Autobot Megatron frowned at him. “Haven’t you worked it out yet? This is Prime’s dream. He is in control.”_

_“Then why does he not answer us?” arrogant Megatron demanded, still brandishing his swords, for what little good they were to him now. They were all confused, all combative; though there was nothing here they could threaten._

_The snappish Megatron leaned back on his bladed pedes, scowling at Optimus with his sharkticon- denta bared. “Isn’t it obvious, my fellow captives?” He gestured theatrically as he spoke, every bit the orator as the others. “This is a plot to drive us all mad!”_

_“The Autobot is clearly up to something,” arrogant Megatron agreed._

_Still unconcerned, Optimus settled back and relaxed. The dream shuttle was a bit hazy in his mind. The edges and corners were slightly blurry, and he propped a mischievous pede on the desk console. In real life, he’d spent most of this trip with his pedes up, as Prowl hadn’t been there to frown at him and make tisk tisk noises._

_“There must be some way to destroy him!” vicious Megatron growled as he brandished his massive fusion cannon. The sound of his denta grinding filled the small space, along with his curses._

_“Be my guest,” the arrogant Megatron gesture-bowed sarcastically at the still-reclining Optimus, who just smiled back at the evil tyrant. They all picked up on that playful expression, even as hidden as Optimus’ face was under his face plate._

_Bristling, they all hurled threats and accusations and waved their fists and vicious Megatron even stomped around like some overgrown bitlet –_ _to the annoyance of the others. Especially when Optimus just rumble-laughed to himself for the display._

_Vicious Megatron was the most humorous to Optimus; the bastard was both braggart and bully, now powerless and fuming. Optimus’ teasing of that version was the most pointed, however gentle. There was no way Megatron could be this insane, and Optimus could only assume this version was manifest as some of the more comically evil of his views on Megatron._

_The cunning Megatron would worry him except he wasn’t real, and thus powerless. The arrogant Megatron was tiresome; such airs had long lost their effectiveness on him._

_It was the Megatron with the Autobot insignia that he found most interesting… surely a manifestation of his innermost hope for the future. He’d warmed to that version almost immediately._

_Optimus noticed their threats had intensified, and responded appropriately. The dream shifted, and now they were standing at the Rodion police station. Unlike the shuttle, this dream- location was crisp and clear. Optimus was standing behind the station counter, a beat cop once again. He was in his original frame, with the only addition being Tyrest’s crown atop his helm._

_The Megatrons – all of them – were being booked to be thrown into the nearest prison cell. “Do you mean to say we are prisoners in this place?” The snappish Megatron snapped at Autobot Megatron as he was bent over a desk and handcuffed. His armor blades stabbed into everything around him, not that the dream-officers noticed or cared._

_“It seems that way.” Autobot Megatron said, and he sounded resigned. He alone seemed to hold a greater understanding of their situation. He was tight-lipped though, as other than Optimus Prime – currently something of a warden – none of the others could be considered anything more than enemies._

_It wasn’t surprising that, outnumbered three to one, Autobot Megatron was sticking close to Optimus. It did nothing to redeem him in their harsh eyes. Especially with the way Optimus kept eyeing the brand on his chest and breaking out into the most massive smiles._

_Primus._

_“Not so much a concern for you,” snappish Megatron said, eyeing Autobot Megatron with the utmost distain._

_“I remember you,” the vicious Megatron hissed at Autobot Megatron, and there was no doubt that if he could, he’d have taken the traitor’s helm by now, purely on principal. His vitriol was endless as he tried to fight the dream-officers, but Optimus Prime’s mind was far stronger, and he was easily overpowered. He went down under a pile of precinct officers, each one with crystal clear face plates, clearly part of some cherished and oft-visited memory flux._

_“I will kill you all for this indignity!” the vicious Megatron screamed, and the other Megatrons shared an exasperated look. They were all losing patience with him, as his theatrics were well over the top and to the point of ridiculousness. Perhaps his rule in his own dimension was so ironclad that these tantrums provoked useful fear, but here his blustering and threats were growing old to anyone not subject to his fists._

_Which was all of them. “Such buffoonery,” The arrogant Megatron sniffed in distain, elegant even while cuffed and face down on the ground._

_Autobot Megatron was standing in a corner, quiet and unassuming. Only he remained unmolested, probably because he was the only Megatron here that made no aggressive overtures towards Optimus Prime._

_Snappish Megatron growled, arrogant Megatron scowled, and behind them, vicious Megatron’s visage was splayed over the view screens as the dream-officers foisted him up like a record-breaking catch of fish._

_Wriggling around like a maniac tuna, vicious Megatron’s words blurred as he grew dizzy, but some of the shrieks and threats were most uncultured. “I’ve taken every port on your frame! I’ve leaked on your face! You’ve refueled at my pedes like a beast–”_

_Perhaps it was just as well that Optimus Prime couldn’t understand a damned word said. The other Megatrons were starting to wish they could say the same._

_“Lovely,” Autobot Megatron muttered as he was rather unhappy to be faced with himself at his utmost worst. He kept glancing between Prime and vicious Megatron, and if he held some deeper knowledge of divergent histories between the two, he did not speak of it. But the concern he displayed toward Optimus Prime was most unseemly._

_“Indeed,” cultured Megatron spat at him, aiming the barb right back at the bright red brand on Autobot Megatron’s chest. As annoyed as he was with vicious Megatron, he’d much rather entertain a maniac then a traitor._

_“I will kill you, Prime! You will die! I don’t know who rescued you, but I will have my revenge! Prime! Revenge!”_

_Snappish Megatron just rolled his optics. Harsh symmetry to match his harsh demeanor, he was unimpressed with the entire lot of them. Keeping his council to himself, he kept his optics on Optimus Prime, and didn’t like what he was seeing._

_It was obvious to him now that Optimus couldn’t read or understand language anymore, and his damaged state was further suggested by what was playing over the vid-screens; only incomprehensible gibberish. The only words uttered at any point came from the assembled Megatrons._

_For Optimus’ perspective, that they could speak and understand each other should have been an indicator something was up, but he wasn’t that cognizant right now. He still considered them all parts of his own imagination. Only Autobot Megatron was grounded enough to realize how fortunate they all were that even within his own mind, Optimus Prime was a benevolent god-being._

_Optimus seemed to grow bored with his current locale, and glanced around as if looking for a chair. Moments later the police station disappeared, and they all reappeared on the small, peaceful shuttle._

_Claiming the shuttle’s command chair, Optimus settled down with a sigh. A moment’s contemplation, and thok went Optimus’ pede, landing smack in the middle of the nearest monitor station, and he leaned back and relaxed. A bit of dirt tumbled off and rolled across the smooth surface. Prowl would be fuming. Ultra Magnus would have been in tears._

_Thok, crossed the other pede._

_Oh so comfortable._

_“I have had enough,” roared snappish Megatron, as apparently it was his turn to lose his composure. He stomped forward, Optimus blinked a little, and suddenly everyone was supporting too much weight on their fronts._

_THWACK, they all hit the deck, rolling around like bobbles. Optimus sniffed a little. A bit mean perhaps, but Megatron totally deserved it. In the lucid dreams Optimus’ own abdominals were flat, but he knew that was far from the truth. Seeing the various Megatron’s stunned expressions and watching them roll around and try to climb the shuttle’s various fixtures to get upright tickled him to no end._

_It was just a little taste of what Optimus had to deal with…_

_Hmm._

_Stumbling forward, Autobot Megatron knelt next to Optimus Prime, wobbling a little on his pedes. Flabbergasted, he forced himself to work through the discomfiture of having a massive belly. It helped that he had no idea what the warping of his front abdominals might represent beyond the crude humor of a sleeping mind. Interfacing, carrying, and being sparked up didn’t exist in his reality._

_Arrogant Megatron and vicious Megatron had spent more time on Earth; their cries of horror and outrage proved that ignorance was bliss._

_“I need you to listen to me carefully,” Autobot Megatron said, snapping his fingers under Optimus’ nasal sensor to catch his attention. “I question if you can understand me, but it seems I have no recourse. Rescue should have come by now, if it was to come at all.” His voice held desperate tones, and Optimus turned towards him with sympathetic optics._

_“Brainstorm is responsible for this insanity,” Autobot Megatron said. “Perceptor invented a device that captures and transfers memory core fluxes into a holographic tesseract that can be used to project one’s deepest fears onto a holo-pad for analysis.”_

_Autobot Megatron winced for the mouthful, and then winced again when he realized how much practice he’d been getting explaining ridiculous happenstance to blank-faced bystanders thanks to all the Lost Light shenanigans he’d been dealing with lately. He could almost hear Rodimus laughing his aft off, Ultra Magnus yelling at Rodimus to focus, and Perceptor and Brainstorm sniping at each other over who was to blame (totally Brainstorm, but good luck getting him to behave himself)._

_Autobot Megatron winced again when he realized he was starting to miss the normality inside the insanity and continued, “He intended it a tool for Rung to help Bluestreak, but Brainstorm ran off with it and modified it to use a multi-dimensional hypothetical topological fissure to pick up **my** thought patterns, intending to broadcast my innermost fears across the ship and cause me mischief. Suffice to say, the device malfunctioned, and my counterparts and I were sucked into the resulting space-time rupture. I rematerialized here, and this is the result.” _

_There was the sound of a pin dropping._

_Optimus Prime blinked and somewhere, a theoretical physicist began writing a sternly worded letter against the abuse of scientific nomenclature in non-scientific publications._

_Autobot Megatron leaned forward, his optics intense. “Optimus, in effect, we were mentally scraped from our realities and now we are trapped in your dreams.”_

_The other Megatrons stared at each other in deepening horror, only now realizing the depth of their situation. “What happens if the Autobot kills one of us?” arrogant Megatron asked._

_“Don’t you know his name?” the snappish Megatron snapped. “Why do you insist on calling him that?”_

_“He doesn’t have a name,” arrogant Megatron replied with an edge in his vocalizer. “He is an accursed Autobot. When I have taken my place as the rightful ruler of Cybertron, I will erase all traces of their–”_

_Then the dreamscape – now their reality – shifted again. They were in Megatron’s penthouse back in Iacon, not joors before the Quintesson Invasion._

_Megatron was glossa deep in Optimus Prime’s valve, fragging him relentlessly while he writhed amidst some tedious call from some subordinate and the details were too intricate, too detailed to be a figment of imagination. All the Megatrons stared in shocked amazement._

_Vicious Megatron screamed in revulsion and aimed his fusion cannon, but one CHOOM CHOOM later, and only glitter and confetti exploded out the business end._

_Horrified, he stared at his weapon, back at Optimus, back to his weapon, then turned and waddled away screaming. He locked himself into the penthouse’s washracks, and his rants and various thunderous crashes could be heard throughout the flat._

_Optimus smiled. He pointed at Autobot Megatron’s middle and extended a hand, as if to ask, may I?_

_Autobot Megatron hesitated, and then waddled forward. Of all of them, he wasn’t wary of their prison warden, and his faith was rewarded when Prime smiled at him and laid a hand on his midsection._

_His belly vanished entirely and in its place he was holding a litter of tiny, roaring Grimlocks. Optimus looked amused and tried to lift one. The tiny hatchling chomped down on his hand – still no damage – and charged away with his siblings._

_Completely beside himself with confusion – such the stuff of dreams after all – and Autobot Megatron just ran with it and leaned in close. “Optimus,” he quietly pleaded, “All we need for this to end, is for you to wake up.”_

_Meanwhile, vicious Megatron’s violent washrack rampage hit a crescendo and then he exploded back out of the room, waddling forward like Mortilus on some sort of insane, drunken bender._

_Seeing the sheer murder in his optics, Optimus tilted his helm, and in place of a rampaging warlord, there was a small, **amazingly** shaggy, long-haired cat._

_More shocked amazement, none so intense as the shaggy carpet of fur with the horrified red eyes on the floor._

_“Rawrrr?” the fluffball asked, fully bamboozled into an unnatural state of calmness. It wasn’t going to last. Optimus made another amused sound and looked over at the other Megatrons, meeting their shocked visages. His optics twinkled with mischief._

_Arrogant Megatron began to back away, hands outstretched. “Now, Prime–”_

_“I thought he didn’t have a name,” Autobot Megatron said, and there may have been a hint of smugness in his tone. He cocked an eyeridge, and then turned back around when Prime leaned forward and gestured to the flabbergasted and oh-so-fluffy vicious Megatron._

_Who’s fluffy?_

_“–I wouldn’t suggest it–”_

_Then Mega…cat materialized into Prime’s lap. He made a sound, a growl that would make Ravage proud, and all claws extended. Optimus’ hand descended, one long, lovely full body pet later and all dignity fled as Megacat alternated between instinctive purrs and screeching outrage at Starscream-approved decibel levels._

_…you’re fluffy!_

_No. Vicious Megatron was not fluffy. Not. Fluffy. He was the Slagmaker, the End of All Things and he launched himself towards Optimus’ face with wild eyes and claws at the ready._

_But alas, dreams were funny things, and Optimus took the fluff blast to the face with no damage. Instead, he gave the thrashing-howling-dream-fluffball an uninhibited snuggle even as the other Megatrons stared in open-mouthed horror._

_Who’s a fluffy fluff ball? … he couldn’t say, though he meant it. He’d always been partial to cats, not that he’d ever owned one. One full fluffy-tummy cuddle later and Mega-cat howled in bitter defeat._

_Autobot Megatron dropped his helm into his hands, and the rest of the Megatrons scattered like frightened rooks even as Optimus cuddled the hell out of poor, vicious Megatron._

_“This isn’t funny, Prime!” Snappish Megatron roared over his shoulder even as he beat a hasty – tactical of course! – retreat._

_Optimus let them go; he was a benevolent god-being that didn’t enjoy the torment of others. But damn it, this was his dream, and in his dreams, evil tyrants learned the error of their ways or else had warm fluffy tummies._

_Watching the others flee, Autobot Megatron was tempted to join them even as he accepted the huge embrace Optimus was pulling him into. To be honest, he wasn’t sure if he could even make it into any of the side rooms before Optimus pulled him back; Optimus’ power over this dreamscape was absolute, to vicious Megatron’s intense mortification._

_Maybe it wasn’t even a drop in the bucket for what the vicious bastard deserved, but it was something._

_“I have this terrible feeling that you are somewhat unwell,” Autobot Megatron said, even as he reluctantly accepted the embrace, deciding he preferred a damned good cuddling from Optimus to whatever the other Megatrons would do to him if he tried to join them in what looked to be the nearest closet._

_Resigned to his immediate fate, Autobot Megatron gave a little shiver for the dream-engine-rumble from the blue and red mech, the closeness something he remained unaccustomed to. Had Optimus always been so … hands on? He didn’t think so._

_“This situation is most peculiar,” he mumbled into Optimus’ neck cables, even as Megacat continued to yowl threats from his position snuggled in Optimus’ lap._

_For his part, Optimus didn’t understand what Autobot Megatron was saying to him, but he did know he was dreaming._

_Optimus Prime was dreaming, and it was the best dream, ever._


	23. Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a mini-mech makes a gamble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special warning; further silliness.
> 
> I had to delete and re-upload this chapter due to server shenanigans, I saved the comments and re-posted them below, sorry for any confusion. Silly server.
> 
> Edited to add ... and it didn't help. For whatever reason, the website isn't showing my story as updated, and apparently it happened the last time, too. Frustrating. People probably think I haven't updated in over a month, now. 
> 
> *Grumbles*
> 
> Also, this was supposed to be the final chapter, but it went too long, and then I wasn't happy with the last part of it, just didn't feel right so I am going to work on it some more. So I cut it in half, and if all goes well there will be only one more chapter after this, then the epilogue. :D
> 
> Arrogant Megatron = Animated universe  
> Vicious Megatron = that crazy bastard from G1  
> Snappish Megatron = from TF: Prime  
> Autobot Megatron = IDW/Reparations  
> Starscream = G1

Another night cycle, another morning … and after refueling himself and Prime, it was time to leave to face the day.

There was much to be done outside, but Megatron found himself lingering … not that his berth mate had any complaints. "So happy lately," Megatron murmured. Sitting across from Prime, he ran a gentle servo down Prime’s back, stroking over the soft mesh of his lower back strut. He was enjoying the feel of his berth mate, both physical and mental; Prime’s purring engine and expressive electromagnetic fields a constant, pleasing presence.

For wherever Optimus Prime was in his dreams, it was a happy place. More often than not, his fields were thrumming with alternate waves of amusement, happiness, and contentment. Sometimes even outright laughter, or at least as close to laughter as could reflect out across a mech's field.

It made cuddling up to him at night most pleasant, and as active as Prime was in his dreams, they spent most nights wrestling around each other and most mornings entangled together.

Also amusing was the trilling sounds; a wordless mimicry of the universal kitty-kitty-kitty call, and that sound came often. It was accompanied by sudden little movements, as if Optimus was chasing after something. Calling and moving, calling and moving, he would seem to lunge and then curl around in happiness, apparently having captured whatever he'd been chasing in his dreams.

"I always thought of you as a canine mech," Megatron said with a quirk to his lips. In his HUD, the comm lines were bustling and he glanced at the door, then back at Prime.

Now that Prime had captured whatever he was dream-chasing, prior experience reassured Megatron that he would settle for most of the day. It was safe enough to leave him; the berth-nest hollow was the only place Prime wanted to be right now. He could be counted on to stay nestled safe within the comfortable little hollow as he dreamed.

“I will check on you in a few joors,” Megatron offered, glancing at the door again. It was well past time to leave … but he didn't want to go. Increasingly, he wanted to stay close by, understanding in some instinctive way – likely through pheromone markers – that Prime was close to emergence.

Even now Megatron hovered, and with another engine purr, Prime turned over and settled. With him so quiet and content, there was no further excuse to delay. After one last moment, Megatron finally turned and left Prime to his dreams.

The door closed with a _click_ and from beneath the berth, a small and speculative pair of eyes lit up within the darkness, glinting off a tiny frame and dark green plating.

With the Combaticons constantly on the prowl, this hiding place was the only reason the Ammonite was still alive. For what better place to hide then in the last place anyone would look?

Well aware that his survival depended on being in the Cybertronian leader’s good graces, the Ammonite had been watching and waiting for a chance to prove himself.  But while watching and listening to Lord Megatron during intimate moments from various hiding places, he had quickly come to understand his value to his would-be new leader.

Being worth more dead than alive was quite the setback. Yet, watching Megatron interact with his mate had changed his plans entirely.

"Kitty-kitty-kitty," the last Ammonite whispered.

Then the less-than-elegant sounds of reverse-engineered transforming (the secrets of transformation cog technology stolen by the Ammonites long ago) rasped out from underneath the berth. Hopping up, the shy Ammonite – now in the form of a small feline – padded over and nestled down and next to Prime.

Watching the door, the tiny alien was prepared to bolt and hide from Megatron or anyone else in a moment's notice. Knowing his luck wouldn’t last, the Ammonite began to ingrain himself to the only other mech here that might be willing to save him. Mimicking a cat's purr, he rubbed up against Optimus Prime, and was accepted and enveloped into possessive arms not even a moment later.

Purring into Optimus Prime’s audial, he settled down and into a role of companion. He was hopeful that if he played this right, he might make it out of Uytis alive. The last of his gestalt and the most resourceful of his kind, he'd do whatever it took to survive.

So long as Megatron remained in the dark, he still had a chance.

 

* * *

 

The relocation of the sunken ship to the Courtyard had been both triumph and failure.

Thanks to Optimus Prime’s stash of fuel, the Cybertronian prisoners had had energy to spare. There was so much of it that Megatron – after much cajoling – even authorized opening one Nucleon barrel for general consumption (not recommended but entirely needed).

Only cycles into his sleep and Prime was the toast of the evening.

“Three cheers for Prime!” was the cry across all of Uytis, and the well wishes were shouted by both Decepticon and Autobot alike as ravenous fuel tanks were filled to overflowing with high-grade ship fuel.

Though if Megatron had had any idea what Nucleon did to inhibitor chips, he would have thought twice. For what followed could only be called an impromptu party in which absolutely everyone got tanked in more ways than one (Brawl ran over at least three mechs in tank mode).

Completely overcharged along with everyone else, Megatron scowled down at the happy pandemonium and turned to Thundercracker. He opened his mouth to say something, wobbled a little, and then settled on pointing meaningfully at all the carnage and making unhappy noises.

Thundercracker got the general gist and stumbled forward, understanding there was a problem, but having trouble figuring out what to do about it.

"I kin ... I can ..." and Onslaught made a few uncoordinated movements and Thundercracker lurched in his direction.

Meanwhile, Megatron hesitated when a semi-coherent thought hit and he turned and checked for the carrying mechs. They really shouldn’t be left to the mercy of overcharged hooligans, but thankfully there were none to be seen. The Pavilion was empty as apparently severely-overcharged guardians tended to succumb to protective instincts and they and their carriers were already hidden away for the evening.

Good enough.

Megatron was feeling the same pull and he staggered towards his quarters and consort, washing his servos of the whole business. All he wanted out of life  was his face buried into warm neck cables and to drift off to sleep to the sound of soft engine purrs ... and he disappeared into the darkness without so much as a backward glance.

Meanwhile, Thundercracker, Long Haul, and Onslaught agreed that things were _definitely_ getting out of hand. Mechs were getting up to all sorts of trouble and _somebody_ needed to lay down the law.

After a moment of confused back and forth, Thundercracker shrugged and just clambered up on top of Onslaught's shoulders. Pitching back and forth like some sort of winged dinghy besieged by rough waters, he started shouted all sorts of authoritative proclamations, starting with the obvious and warming to task rather quickly. 

"–Solutely NO RUNNING OVER of MECHS with TANKS or Mechs that ARE TANKS" ... oh and since he was up here might as well "BAN all warping without WRITTEN AUTHORIZATION" and also mechs "using jokes as WEAPONS OF MASS CONFUSION" (Onslaught blurted that one up at him) and "other RELATED SILLINESS … and ... and … TANKS RUNNING MECHS OVER and–"

Oh, did he say that one already?

Yes?

Mission accomplished then!

Satisfied, Thundercracker started climbing back down, hesitating only when the magnitude of the task finally registered. Dangling off Onslaught’s shoulder, TC cast about while trying to catch the ground with a pede and wing-flicking ‘hold still damn you’ at the ground as it was tumbling all over the place. How could mechs be expected to walk in these conditions–

But his attempts at vertical reorientation were rudely interrupted as that last decree was rather controversial and apparently some tank-mode murder machines had _questions_ and were demanding _clarifications_ and TC climbed back up Onslaught like one would climb a skinny, wobbly tree – very carefully – and started adding more conditions like, "Unless those mechs are QUINTS" and "or named OVERLORD" and "... DYNOBOTS?"

"…no, not Dynobots," Thundercracker slurred sternly at Sludge, who was every bit as overcharged and looking hopelessly confused. "Those ones on our side."

Thundercracker was wobbling dangerously now as Onslaught was having trouble remembering how many pedes he should have in his possession and why he had a Seeker clambering around on his shoulders while Sludge was still trying to get confirmation about the tank-banning-thing.

Then Long Haul reappeared with more Nucleon for everyone, which wasn't helping in the coherency department in the slightest. Taking another drink, Thundercracker blinked as Sludge gave up on coherency altogether and started slapped words against the proverbial wall, hoping some of them would stick in recognizable patterns.

TC blinked again, putting two and two together and coming up with -17.  "Dynobots that ... _want_ to be run over by tanks?"

Sludge blinked as that didn't sound right, but at this point he was sorry he'd asked and just nodded dumbly. Thundercracker squinted at all the nodding Sludges in curiosity (there were three of them now) and TC blinked and then took another drink and squinted again and now there were even _more_ Sludges.

_Huh._

Maybe he should look into this. After all, lots of Sludges might be useful against the Quints, and TC penned himself a note for later (on the back of Onslaught’s helm) while Onslaught muttered something vaguely supportive like "I been asked before" and so apparently the tank thing _was_ a thing.

... Kinky.

Well, who was he to judge? Thundercracker shrugged his wings, nearly toppling off Onslaught in the process. Swaying back and forth, he gave up on balance and just grabbed Onslaught's helm for support and started yelling again.

"–and not BAN any DYNOBOTS that–"

But at this point Onslaught forgot to control his lower limbs and stumbled and Thundercracker pitched forward and then Slag incorrectly connected "ban" with "Dynobots" and all hell broke loose.

After relocating themselves to the safety of the upper levels while the soon to be famous Drunken Dynobot Riot of Stellar Cycle 654 roared past, Command congratulated themselves on their quick thinking and consumed even _more_ Nucleon fuel and then decided to test the jury-rigged teleporter.

Long Haul was insisting that someone told him that you absolutely could fire blasters mid-teleport, and the words 'hold my energon' may or may not have been involved, but thankfully Command passed out before they did any damage in their drunken stupor.

...

The next day Onslaught managed to remember the drunken argument, and amidst much moaning and groaning everyone decided it was still a good idea ... sans the shooting thing. It may have been the only good idea of the night from the way everyone was staggering around.

A few days later they used the sunken ship as a test subject.

Still half-buried in the ground, the excavation was labor-intensive and delaying everything else. And so when Hook had finished the delicate re-calibrations joining the space bridge module to the alien transportation device, and Scavenger had closed up the last access panel ... it was time.

It was an exciting moment for everyone.

"We should name it 'The Triumphant Return!'" Pipes shouted as everyone fled for safer viewing spots. "You mean the 'Rustbucket Express,'" Hook snapped back, while 'The Undefeated II' was Skywarp's pick and Onslaught argued that losing to a _cargo ship_ didn't qualify for a word so grand as _defeat_ while Ratchet's infant shrieked-snored (oh so excited for all the yelling!) and Nova Storm shouted "how would we translate that to glyphs?" and Brawl leapt atop a trash-drift and roared 'Ship for Brains!'

...but only TC caught the reference.

Then, with everyone watching a safe distance away, Long Haul hit the panel and activated the teleporter. The good news was that the teleportation device worked. The bad news was that it only worked _once_.

The device belched, the sunken ship vanished, and a shadow-burst of light appeared in the designated spot. Presumptuous cheers broke out across the Courtyard, only to falter when the teleporter began to cough smoke. Then the shimmering increased in intensity to a wild roar and Scavenger started yelping technical jargon at Long Haul while Hook began insisting his calibrations had been done properly...

…and if the ship were alive, it would have been _screaming_.

They were fortunate, all things considered.

The dead metal of the sunken ship endured the dreadful forces applied to it when the teleporter malfunctioned halfway through the re-materialization sequence. Half in and half out of reality, the rusty ship shimmered on the Courtyard's cobbled-together landing pad. Congealed fluids rained down and sparks flew and energy-ripples lashed and burned across the ship's surfaces.

Steaming hot and sparking, the ship finally re-materialized in the Courtyard. It was greeted with cries of relief from the Cybertronians, Scavenger’s frantic cursing, and Megatron's twisted expression.

After checking the ship over, Scavenger pronounced it salvageable, and thus was the inglorious end of the teleporter plan. Instead, everyone threw their hopes on the withered back of the rust bucket ship.

Under Megatron’s direction, Long Haul took command of the project, directing the efforts of the work crews as the rest of the Cybertronians swarmed the ship in teams and Megatron circled the ship like a critical foreman.

Turning a corner, Megatron encountered Scavenger patting the ship's side like one would an injured pet.

"I'm so sorry," Scavenger whimpered apologies to the burn-pocketed ship's flank. "Don't be angry and throw your manifold couplings again. I swear the transporter should have worked." In the weeks spent working on the vessel Scavenger had grown a little attached. Maybe a little too attached as he all but hugged the hot, smoking mess.

Megatron shook his helm and laid a hand on a smoking panel, snatching it back when heat warnings flashed across his HUD. "That ... was quite the malfunction," he said as he stepped back with his hands on his hips.

Scavenger shot Glorious Leader an apologetic glance – it would have been a lethal delay for any living being trapped in such a state. If they had followed the original plan, Megatron would have been DOA on the Mauler ship.

Staring at the smoking ship, Megatron found it a sobering thought, made worse by the realization that Optimus Prime had saved his aft _twice_ now, and Prime wasn't even _conscious_.

Speaking of Prime...

"Underbite!" Megatron called, and subspaced a small piece of green plating given to him by the Constructicons. The hunt for the Ammonite had been going poorly. Megatron wanted the headset ready for when Prime woke, but the tiny Ammonite hadn't been spotted for many cycles now, and he was growing inpatient.

The Chompazoid appeared moments later, loping forward like an eager hound. He'd been keeping his helm down as he was having some trouble re-integrated with his Cybertronian brothers. Thanks to lingering hostility over the Overlord business, Underbite was quick to appear helpful, and Megatron was hopeful he would succeed where others had failed.

"I have a special task for you," Megatron said. "You are an accomplished hunter, as I recall. There is a small alien down below," and here Megatron held out the scrap of dark green plating as a scent-marker and continued, "the Combaticons have been unable to locate him. I want the little beast brought to me, undamaged. I need his helm intact for a project of mine."

"Ain't nobody better at huntin' then me," Underbite blustered, snapping his beak. "I'll get you your mech." Sniffing the piece of Ammonite on offer, he turned and made for the lower levels straight away, eager to prove himself. Hunting was a favored past time, and he was especially eager for the assignment as it meant he would be avoiding grunt work entirely.

Meanwhile, everyone else assembled around the ship and the work day really began.

First, Megatron assigned Thundercracker the task of monitoring general operations (i.e babysitting the carrying mechs and the poor wretches that had gone back for umpteenth helpings of Nucleon, bless their poor, aching helms) and then assigned the heavy lifting to the Combaticons as the Constructicons were needed for their technical expertise.

Even the Dynobots were helping.

Slag and Sludge stood testing their weight on their pedes and shifting back and forth for discomfort. They'd been on their pedes for far longer then was recommended, but they refused to return to their trash-nests, even with Pipes and Blue's worried comments and after Thundercracker all but ordered them to rest.

Not when they could use their mass to help heft and haul the heavier metal pieces for welding to the ship's sides. Everyone was ready for escape and anyone that could help was hard at work.

Megatron spent the rest of the working day alternating between hauling scrap with the Combaticons and holding metal strips down for the ever-welding Hook. They worked in silence for the most part, as the noise of the crude welder made things difficult for conversation, no great loss as Megatron found Hook's company far from desirable anyway.

"He'd better show for his follow-up," Hook mumbled to himself at one point. There was a gleam of anticipation in his optics. Overhearing that, Megatron didn't have to guess which _he_ Hook was daydreaming about.

 _Even less pleasant in a medical setting,_ Megatron thought, remembering how poor Bluestreak had fared after his capture.

Missing a medical appointment and running from the Constructicons wasn't a good plan, no matter how much everyone understood the desire. Fleeing meant Hook had every right to use restraints, and everyone knew how much he enjoyed that particular process.

Megatron had done for Bluestreak what he'd done for Pipes, but even then there was only so much he could do. Hook had eons of experience terrifying his patients. In his med-station Hook ruled as a mad emperor, and with the care he took to stay within a hair's-breadth of the line, he was all but untouchable.

Megatron was not surprised at how frightened Bluestreak had looked when he'd arrived to check on him. The joor of prep and setup and Hook's constant, droll commentary about stitches and sutures and widening oral passages for easier access under the guise of _keeping the patient informed of medical options_ had been harrowing enough.

Not to mention the delightful aside about the probability that lasting damage from reckless Quintesson devices could mean a need to restructure the entire oral cavity for the excretory one and during the dissertation on the logistics of _that_ ... there may have been a hint of optical fluid at the corners of poor Blue's optics.

Then, once Hook as certain everything was in order, he began the actual removal procedure.

Megatron had tensed, Bluestreak had clenched his restraints with wild eyes, and with a few twists of Hook's fingers the gag popped out with a – _plop!_ – and rolled discarded across the floor.

 ... and then Hook had let his patient up with a pleased air.

"Wash the area with fluid three times a day and call me in the morning cycle," Hook had advised the thunderstruck Bluestreak, who staggered away with a deep sense of lingering horror. Standing off to the side, washing his servos, Hook looked the very picture of a benevolent surgeon helping his fellow mechs, but anyone who knew him could see he was beside himself with glee.

Another repaired and wholly dissatisfied patient, _such_ a good day!

"See, that wasn't so bad," Pipes had piped up from the background. He was all innocent optics as he'd missed most of the commentary. The traumatized Bluestreak flared his door-wings and punched poor Pipes right in the face. Startled, Snarl had reflexively punched Bluestreak in the face before he could stop himself, causing Slag to tail-whip _him_ and of course that couldn't be left to stand.

Snarl charged and a brawl started up, one which Onslaught had to deal with because Megatron had strode (stately of course) out of the med-station so fast he was too far away to intervene.

After order was restored, Slag and Bluestreak had wandered off together (Blue clinging to Slag’s back while _reams and reams_ of previously trapped words tumbled out of his mouth) and that was the last Megatron had seen of the sharpshooter.

Hopefully Bluestreak would have the sense Primus gave gravel to show up for his next appointment. Unfortunate as it was that Hook was their best option, at least for all his idiosyncrasies, he _was_ a competent medic.

"Any idea when to expect emergence?" Megatron finally asked Hook during a quieter moment, as they wrestled another metal strip up to the ship's side. Megatron slapped his palms against the strip to hold it firm.

"No way to know for certain," Hook answered as he reactivated his welder and tried not to sound as uninterested as he really was. "The others are at least a mega-cycle out, but yours could come at any time."

"Hopefully soon," Megatron murmured. "I will be solely responsible until Prime awakes. I plan to keep the infant inside my cockpit for the duration, until we reach safety. I need to make an appointment soon, as I need you to shut down the control panels inside."

Hook perked up at that. "You want me to adjust them for ... uh ... entertainment purposes?" The tips of his fingers curled for the thought of a stately Megatron walking past with a squeaking newborn pounding noisy-flashy panels in his cockpit and Hook almost chortled at the thought.

Almost.

Megatron looked affronted. "Absolutely not."

…because that would be ridiculous, and while Megatron was many things, he was never, _never_ ridiculous.

 

* * *

 

 

**TWO WEEKS LATER  -  SOMEWHERE IN DREAMTIME**

 

_“We ... when ... are,” Ultra Magnus’ voice crackled through the dream. Magnus' worried voice was coming from all around them, making the walls and the very dream-stuff vibrate._

_Autobot Megatron hesitated. He struggled to make sense of the stilted words and asked, “Are we certain our efforts will not harm Optimus?” He was sure now that this Optimus was hurt somehow and he didn’t want to make Optimus' situation any worse._

_“Perceptor thinks ... jolt ... reset Prime’s ... and ... force ... wake up," Ultra Magnus said. There was another long pause as his voice faded in and out in odd patterns. It was only barely recognizable, and even odder, the noise itself was visible. The soundwaves twisted and rolled through the dream as Ultra Magnus continued, "... should ... quick and painless ... no damage to ...”_

_Autobot Megatron rumbled in relief to hear the news. He glanced over at Optimus, who was happily distracted with Megacat. In the time spent in here he'd grown rather fond of this quiet version of Optimus Prime. He didn't want any harm to befall him._

_The other Megatrons couldn't say the same._

_In fact, they couldn't say anything at all, beyond the occasional hiss or yowl from where they were all hiding. Each one of them had succumbed to their rage at some point. Each one had tried to attack the silent Optimus. Now each one sported a thick fur coat and flashing red optics. Hiding under tables, chairs, rugs, anywhere a small, furry body might, they each took their unwilling turns on Optimus Prime's lap whenever the dream changed and they were ousted from their current hiding spots._

_The amount of cuddling they'd endured was mind-boggling._

_Autobot Megatron wasn't sure how long he'd been trapped in Optimus' dreamscape. Time was nonsensical here. The longer he spent here the more nervous and worried he became, though the opposite seemed to be true for Optimus._

_Megatron could only assume that the sense of having full control over his reality was having a positive effect on Optimus; he was far more relaxed and even the dream-stuff seemed brighter. Not to mention the constant cuddling of soft, furry tyrannical tyrants. Hadn't he read somewhere that having pets was healthy for the spark? Though at this point, Optimus was looking more like a crazy cat droid then a responsible pet owner._

_Only Autobot Megatron had been spared the embarrassment of Prime Time Cuddles. Though he had, on occasion, been pulled in for bear hugs. Those came the moment he dared look worried or distressed for his situation. He'd learnt to hide his own worries lest Optimus try to comfort him in the only way he could._

_Autobot Megatron sighed to himself, and suspected Optimus was projecting his own needs. It was one of the reasons why he didn't resist any sort of comfort offered. Such interactions were a frequent affair and he was getting used to the closeness, something Optimus seemed to crave for himself. There seemed another force at work here, something beyond the careless thought-tangles of a dreaming mind … some angle he was missing._

_Optimus was not fully himself, that much was certain._

_Even now, Optimus had one of his mortal enemies nestled in his lap. He was trying to coax his adored and cornered new pet to accept a belled collar so he might be found easier for cuddles. Snappish Megacat was **not enthused** and was putting up one hell of a fight. Claws out and teeth bared, Megacat's snarling and spitting was as intense as his attempts at Prime-a-cide... and just as fruitless. There was an adorable belled collar in his future. He knew it, everyone knew it, and all across the room concerned cat-faces were peeking out from their hiding spots. _

_Oh the Transformanity!_

_"Rawr!" the snappish Megatron howled._ _It was the equivalent of_ – _'help me you sorry wretches!'_ – _but even he knew there was not a paw that would or could be lifted in his defense._

_For Optimus, damn him to the Pit, was a multi-talented snuggle-master, capable of breathtaking and awe-inspiring unidirectional cuddles. This was something the Megacats had all learned the hard way after a failed zerg rush. They were wholly outmatched in the arena of Optimus' choosing._

_Concentrating on his task, Optimus was paying his surroundings no mind and as a result_ _the dreamscape kept shifting; to the shuttle on-route to Omega Supreme, then Optimus' quarters in New Iacon, to a battlefield somewhere on Cybertron, onward to a crumbled city on Earth, and then to Megatron's penthouse, and sometimes, frighteningly, a cell in some Quintesson hell._

 _That last memory flux worried Autobot Megatron greatly as it seemed a clue as to whatever harsh reality this gentle Optimus was from. But it was hard to stay focused on such concerns when floppy-furry Megacats exploded in all directions each time the dreamscape changed. Exposed, each one was frantic to find a place to hide._ _The sound of a tinkling bell distracted Autobot Megatron from his dark musings. He turned to see snappish Megatron on his back, massive flop of fur in disarray,  paws struggling to hold blue servos bearing unwanted gifts at bay._

_He looked ridiculous and Autobot Megatron was grinning openly now. Low rolling growls from under the various furniture and behind the curtains didn't help.  Glancing over, Optimus caught his expression and returned the fond look. Then the dream shifted again, back to the shuttle, and once again Megacats exploded in all directions, seeking cover._

_Autobot Megatron was forced to look away before he started laughing at his poor doppelgangers. "Ultra Magnus? I seem to have lost your signal again."_

_"... almost ... to ... errant ... signal ... interference ... from others there?" Ultra Magnus' voice continued to fade in and out. "... almost ready ..."_

_"Please," Autobot Megatron said, "Just hurry. I am ready to leave."_

_Peeking out from their hiding places, the other Megatrons were listening avidly while trying to avoid catching Optimus’ attention. “Ruurrr?” arrogant Megatron called from his position under a study desk, then hunkered down. He'd forgotten he couldn't speak in this form._

_“That is the general idea,” Autobot Megatron agreed._

_“Urrah!” snapped the snappish Megatron. He rolled with a half-twist and finally exploded away, but the damage was already done. The bell was around his neck now, and his protests were not availing him. Under a nearby chair, the vicious Megacat yowled agreement then started hacking up a metal hairball for the umpteenth time._

_So much fur…_

_There was a blast of sound again, only far sharper than the stilted audio from Ultra Magnus. Perhaps the source of the interference Ultra Magnus had seemed to be speaking of. More noise, more vibrations, and then things got... screamy._

_"...is Lord Starscream, Exultant Leader of All Decepticons_ – _"_

_Autobot Megatron blinked, arrogant Megatron scowled, snappish Megatron tried to eat Optimus' face as he was snatched back in midair (Optimus was admiring his new bell) and vicious Megatron recognized his underling and looked completely horrified._

_"_ – _now what have you done with our sorry excuse for … a ..." then Lord Starscream made a sound somewhere between a violently inhaled breath and a squeal and then... and then the laughter started._

 _"_ – _HAHAHAHAHAHHAAHHAHHAHAHAHHAHA_ – ** _HA!_** – _HHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA_ – _"_

_All the Megatrons scowled._

_"YRAAAR!" vicious Megatron roared and then clamped both paws over his mouth, but it didn't matter. In tracking down his missing leader (Soundwave made him) alternate dimension Starscream was getting a view and a half._

_And Starscream liked what he saw._

_His wild laughter was intimately familiar to all of the Megatrons, splendid in its mockery. Even Autobot Megatron was scowling now as Starscream's laughter reached a crescendo, only interrupted by his minions in the background._

_"_ – _don't **care** which one is ours, they all stink, Soundwave! Now someone get Reflector up here! I need vid-recordings and I need them **now**_ – _"_

_Finally something Ultra Magnus was saying came through. "Mega...? ... hear me? ... ready when you ... say ... word."  Then his voice faded out altogether and Autobot Megatron did his best to pick out meaning from the surges of information, now with a renewed sense of urgency. They already had a working plan, and anything Starscream might try would be most unwelcome._

_"_ – _going send these pictures to Shockwave first, the simpering fool will be thrilled to see how our Illustrious Leader has fallen-"_

_A harsh yowl revealed just how thrilled vicious Megatron was with that, and Autobot Megatron almost felt sorry for him. Actually, no he didn't. The cruel lunatic deserved every micron of humiliation thrown in his direction._

_"Hurry, Magnus," Autobot Megatron called out to his second-in-command. "We have unwanted company. I doubt 'Lord' Starscream cares much for the condition he would leave Prime's mind."_

_Starscream's voice broke in again, "Smile for the camera-mech, Mighty Megatron!"_

_In the background, that dimension's Soundwave was mono-toning in distress._ _Vicious Megatron's fur was standing on end now, and his horrified face had all but disappeared under the fluff. Optimus zeroed in on the distress like a shark scenting blood on the water._

_Somebody needed a hug._

_Was it Megacat? Did Megacat need a hug? …oh yes, yes he does and Optimus started forward as all the Megatrons shrank back._

_All but Autobot Megatron._

_"Get ready," Autobot Megatron called to his doppelgangers, ignoring the pit-spawned glitch yammering all around them. "Knowing Brainstorm, reintegrating into the real world may be ... interesting."_

_“Grrrrr,” arrogant Megatron agreed, something to the tune of 'and Primus willing, may I never see you pathetic fools ever again.'_

_Soft huffs of agreement sounded from around the room. Huffs, and the sound of one tinkling bell as snappish Megatron tried to dart into a side cabinet only to get whacked back out by arrogant Megatron, who was unwilling to share his hiding spaces, though to be fair, they were all that way._

_Optimus perked up and started walking in that direction._

_"_ – _really Soundwave, look at him! How can you possibly want that back?! Now hold on to your skidplate because_ – _unsurprisingly!_ – _I have a better plan. Accept me as your new leader and I will restore dignity to_ – _"_

_"Re..dy?" Ultra Magnus asked._

_“Do it,” Autobot Megatron said, and after a moment, lightning struck. “Goodbye Optimus,” Autobot Megatron murmured as he vanished._

_“I hope you get the help you need.”_

…

 

Optimus surged awake, confused and unsure where he was.

Instinctively he moved as if to sit up, but the weight on his front kept him where he was. He stopped moving when he felt movement inside, the feeling an anchor that calmed him. A twinge flashed across his gestation tank; there and gone again.

That had been one hell of a dream.

Confused, he stayed down and quiet while he tried to make sense of his surroundings, tried to make sense of his own mind. One thing was for certain ... he felt better than he had in some time. A thousand times so, as the yawning hole in his mind was sealed over. He no longer felt like he was hanging over a sucking abyss, struggling to stay awake and afraid for it.

Moreover, the maddening itching feeling was so reduced it was all but gone. Even though interrupted, the healing sleep had done much of its work. The sliced circuits in his helm were now rerouted and his processor functioned far better. He felt more like himself again ... and within him, the deep blue sea of his spirit rippled in tranquil waves.

Looking around, Optimus realized the room was too dark and blurry for him to make out anything. His optics hadn't improved for the sleep, unfortunately. At least wherever this place was, it was nice and quiet. His carrier-coding instincts were a soothing lull within him and felt content with the feeling of being in a dark, enclosed space.

There was a lingering scent all around him, thick and cloying.

He inhaled deeply, enjoying the rush of sensory information across his nasal sensors. Along with that little pleasure, there was something pinging in the back of his mind, just at the fringes of memory, but he couldn’t grasp the thought. He couldn't recall much right now; didn’t know what time it was, where he was, or why he was here, but his carrier coding recognized the berth-nest all around him as safe.

The dark blur that hovered near him was missing now, but it was obvious that Megatron, too, inhabited this space. His presence was felt in the thick, comforting scent all around Optimus, though currently the room was still and quiet.

Settling back, he relaxed again, and for the longest time he just lay there and floated, too comfortable to even consider leaving the berth. He even felt a tickling breeze, and that was wonderful. Glancing upward from his position on his back, he realized a ventilation duct was positioned on the ceiling above him.

The cool air was gusting down and sometimes big puffs would caress his plating. It felt good.

 _He_ felt good.

Clean, full of fuel, and well rested, physically at least, he had no pressing concerns. His gestation tank was brimming and warmth was radiating from beneath him, trapped between his frame and the soft bedding. The bed was molded around his frame to a near perfect comfort and he realized he must have been resting here for some time.

Too comfortable to move, Optimus pulled in a deep in-vent and then drifted away for another few joors.

It was a second twinge across his gestation tank that finally roused him enough to consider moving. It intruded on the sleepy slush that was his slowly recovering processor, causing him to creep back to reality, though only with the utmost slowness. Curious, he reached out and touched himself, tracing the twinge. Wordlessly, he wondered how long he had left until emergence.

Rolling over onto his side with a groan, he shifted himself up and into a sitting position. Moving was a little on the difficult side and the effort helped return him to his senses. His joints creaked as he moved and stretched; he could really use a walk. He was preparing to struggle to his feet when he felt another twinge and froze. His carrier-coding kicked in now that he was considering leaving the berth-nest. Nervousness filled him, and he had a sudden desire to turn back and hide, even as another twinge hit.

_Is this it?_

Primus knew he was ready for this to be over. Another twinge. This one was a little stronger this time. A surge of excitement and apprehension wound through him. He settled down, sinking back into the hollow of the berth-nest. This must be it.

_Alright then, let's do this._

He waited there, tense and expectant, feeling as if in wait for some battle to be joined. He'd never sparked before and realized he had no idea what to do.

Concern filled him ... should he lay on his side or his back?

Or sit up, perhaps?

He had no idea what to do, but assumed his gestation systems would. He tried to listen to his instincts, but other than a desire to stay within the berth-nest and hide, the code-instinct was not helpful.

Wait, was this going to be messy? He'd heard from someone somewhere that this sort of thing was messy. There seemed a shower nearby, maybe he should go in and settle down?

Maybe he should go find Ratchet?

 _Could_ he find Ratchet? What was his status here? Was he a captive? He didn't know and the astro-seconds passed, but contrarily enough, the twinge went away again. His unborn must not have agreed on the timing. Finally the twinge went away entirely, and he grew calm again.

False alarm?

_Meh._

Suddenly such worries seemed useless and now he was tired of resting. He had questions, and they wouldn't be answered by him just laying here. With a huff at himself, he struggled to his pedes.

Only then did he register that there was another presence, one without electromagnetic fields. It was secretive and quiet; a small green feline complete with a soft purr. The scent and sound of the little creature was so accepted and familiar to him that he hadn't even noticed it.

Hesitantly pleased for the discovery, Optimus offered a soft, curious engine-rumble, and the small creature responded immediately to that hesitant greeting.  Pressing close, the small cat seemed suitably affectionate, and Optimus ran a servo over it and smiled.

Was this the source of his strange dreams? It must have been... what a thoughtful gift.

The cat hopped to the side and watched as Optimus rocked back and forth, struggling to work himself into a position to stand. He was a little off-balance, but eventually found his footing. He settled his upper weight on his pedes and tested them, finding them steady. A few steps forward and he found his confidence, even as he felt a strong pull back towards the berth-nest, felt a strong desire to hide within it.

With another huff, Optimus disregarded those urges. He'd spent more than enough time sleeping. He felt ... stronger, and there was work to be done. Stepping forward and crossing the room, he was heartened to find the door was unlocked. It was further evidence of kindly intentions; there was nothing here that suggested he was a captive or meant to remain inside the room.

At his pedes, the little cat kept pace with him, obviously intending to keep him company. He was agreeable with that, and squaring his shoulders, he opened the door to the room and stepped back out into the larger world.

 

* * *

 

 

Today was another exciting day, the latest in a long parade of them.

At long last, the rusted ship was finished, and ready for its first real engine test. Everyone was topside, swarming the ship with last minute tweaks. Escape seemed within grasp now, and masses of mechs were buzzing around the rust bucket ship like bees. There was a hum of excitement in the air and everyone was on pins and needles... filled to overflowing with hope and longing.

The rustling of tarps and thermal blankets added to the din. Just that morning Pipes had suggested covering the inside and outside of the critical areas of the ship with thermal blankets to help protect the ship's delicate components in case of an engine fire. Remembering the teleportation disaster, everyone warmed to the idea. Anything that added to their chances of success was seriously entertained, and now mechs were scurrying around collecting and pulling them out. 

Across the Courtyard and heading towards the ship, Brawl was nearly invisible beneath a massive load of tarps and thermal blankets. Tromping past Onslaught, Brawl called out a muffled, "Hey, you mechs hear the one about the–"

Regretfully, Brawl could multi-task, to Swindle's delight and Onslaught's chagrin.

It was into this busy hustle-bustle that Optimus found himself after forgoing the shade of the underground. With careful steps, Optimus ventured out from the dark corridor and into the tamed brightness of the Courtyard.

With his optics still unresponsive, Optimus failed to notice the Chompazoid coming up behind him, though the green cat at his feet certainly did. Baring his little fangs, the cat stayed within microns of Optimus Prime, and spat threateningly.

It seemed the Ammonite’s faith in his new master was vindicated as Underbite clanked his beak in threat, but fell back and stayed out of sight. This was the first sighting of the Ammonite since his assignment had started, but already there were complications. Stalking from the shadows, Underbite kept pace with Prime, but hemmed and hawed to himself over what to do. While he felt he was on thin ice with Megatron already for his failure to corral this little creature, he was also unwilling to upset the consort of his leader.

Oblivious, Optimus stopped in place and stood with his hands on his hips, taking in the restored ship in all its rusty, fusty glory.

The original hull was unrecognizable, covered with random chunks of thick metal hull from the Quintesson troop carrier. It was further distorted by the random bits scavenged from the penitentiary. It was mostly complete now, and was resting on heavy chunks of metal supports like some graceless junkyard vehicle … a visage only a Junker could love.

Speaking of Junkers…

Optimus wasn't surprised to see the ship was swarming with Junkions, and he watched as they affixed tarps to it while under the direction of Thundercracker. From his vantage point, Optimus could see both sides of the vehicle, and he stopped to watch as in the distance, Brawl was busy handing up tarps and thermal blankets to the Junkions.

"Tarps!" Brawl shouted joyfully up at the Junkion workers as he tossed them upwards, and anyone familiar with him recognized _that_ tone of voice. "Tarps are deflecting the heat, can't be beat! Tarps are gonna save us all!"

Unaware of Brawl’s unique sense of humor, the Junkions were looking more and more concerned by the moment. They wanted off this planet too, and right now, the Cybertronians were looking a little ... unhinged (specifically the one waving tarps up at them).

A few more one liners from Brawl and one of the Junkions called a concerned-sounding song lyric at Thundercracker, who just rolled his optics. "Yes, yes, we know a tarp-based outer hull won't work. I mean ... obviously!"

At the same time, on the other side of the ship, Brawl was still arguing with the Junkions. "Should be fine! Paper beats scissors! Tarp deflects fire! You understand that?!"

Thundercracker blinked when the horrified-looking Junkion techie hopped off the top of the ship, somersaulted into the pool and then charged over to him, a Junkion On A Mission. TC was certain something was getting lost in translation as he had to repeat himself multiple times to the concerned-looking Junkion techie who was offering him a diagram of a tarp-covered ship going down in flames.

"–gonna wrap us all up in tarps and–"

"Don’t be ridiculous, it's just for the test," Thundercracker yelled up at the ones atop the ship, too far away to hear Brawl’s contributions to the situation. "Obviously they wouldn't be of any use when we launch–"

“–tarps, tarps, they’re good for your ship, the more you tarp, the more you–”

Optimus couldn't understand any of that, but from the look of things, the situation was well in hand. Keeping his helm down (he was still unsure of his status among the Decepticons) he started circling around for a better look while searching for his Autobots.

The little green cat scampered at his pedes and the dappled starlight felt good across his bare frame. Casting about, Optimus caught sight of some sort of pavilion in the distance. He'd just started in that direction when a blast of sound startled him. Looking to his right, he saw what looked to be a messy communications console.

"...bsszzt... fuzzst..."

The device was complaining mightily, and seemed to be picking up random background noise. Nothing exciting, but Optimus hesitated when a monotone rumble sounded from the device. The pitch was very familiar, and rumbled out from the device for a few notes.

Standing over the console, Optimus looked over the device with a frown. He was reminded of his encounter with Soundwave, but by the time he started pecking at the controls the speaker had fallen silent, spitting out nothing more then static.

_Curious._

Then splashing pulled Optimus’ attention away from the device. His spark leapt happily when he recognized Ratchet at the edge of a Pavilion.

Striding forward, a smile lit up Optimus’ face when he realized all of his Autobots were there, resting on comfortable-looking chairs. He could see no restraints or guards beyond a few seekers hovering around Ratchet, but from the delighted way their wings were flicking, it was obvious what they meant no harm.

Stepping out into the light, Optimus headed towards them straight away. Looking up, Nova storm caught sight of him, and that was the end of his incognito journey.

"Prime on deck," Nova Storm shouted cheerily, and all across the Courtyard mechs perked up, but none more so then a large black and purple jet-former.

...

Hands on his hips, Megatron surveyed the patchwork ship with a sense of accomplishment.

It had been a long afternoon of testing the ship’s engines and other systems, and as far as could be determined, the ship was ready. Now they only needed the communication system to detect the _Retribution’s_ approach, and they would be in business.

"Prime on deck!" came a distant shout, and Megatron’s helm snapped around. Gunning his thrusters, he leapt up and landed atop the ship, searching the Courtyard below. His optics caught on a little crowd of mechs at the Pavilion, and there he _was_.

Optimus Prime was awake, standing amidst his Autobots, and Megatron’s spark leapt for delight.

There was a scuffling sound to his left, and Underbite appeared behind him, head slung low and beak grinding. “Hey,” Underbite reported with submissive, respectful tones, “I found yer Ammonite. But you ain’t gonna like where he is.”

“Later,” Megatron said, waving off the Chompazoid. That concern was secondary right now. He was too delighted that Prime was on his pedes, too distracted with the frame standing tall and round in the distance. He glanced down at himself, wiping at some of the smudges. He'd been working hard all day and knew he looked a mess, but there was little he could do for it.

Flexing and resettling his plating, he made himself presentable as best he could and then started forward to greet his old enemy, co-leader, and mate.

…

Across the Courtyard, Ratchet was sharing that same deep feeling.

He carefully hugged his newly awakened leader; beyond happy to see Optimus awake and up on his pedes. Looking him over with critical optics, Ratchet was happy to see how much better Optimus looked. Returning that spark-felt embrace, Optimus stepped back and began gesturing at Ratchet, wanting an update on what was going on while at the same time admiring the youngster cuddled on Ratchet’s chest.

Down among the various pedes, the little green feline curled up into a defensive ball and mewed in dismay. He'd noticed what Optimus had not; Megatron was on approach.

For the Ammonite this was the moment of truth; the moment that would decide if he lived or died. 

 _Tromp-tromp-tromp_ approached the dark frame with the heavy pedes and red eyes and stately stride and the Ammonite grew more than a little afraid. Circling Optimus' legs, he mewed again. Distracted with Ratchet and the newborn, Optimus reacted almost instinctively to that little sound of distress. He reached down and lifted the mech-animal up, tucking him in the crook of an arm.

Ratchet glanced curiously at the little thing, but quickly lost interest as he had his own little distraction to worry about. The infant in his arms was just waking from his nap and was starting to get squirmy. Optimus reached out with gentle fingers and stroked the tiny frame with Ratchet's blessings. The youngster still couldn’t open his optics yet, but all the noise and the loving fingers that held him were most interesting. His little wings flared and flexed and the tiny ailerons snapped to and fro, gaining strength.

“Hey Prime,” Nova Storm greeted Optimus, and the rest of the Armada followed suit. Some of them recognized the small mech-animal in Optimus' arms and poked at each other and grinned knowingly, but otherwise left well enough alone. They were quickly distracted and beyond charmed with the infant’s little wing flares, and their own wings flexed and they crowded forward to the extent it was safe to do so.

Watching their blurry frames, Optimus was relieved to see their friendliness, and relaxed even further.

‘He's a natural,’ Nova Storm said in wing-speak while flicking one of his bright wings at the newborn. ‘You remember how well he took the turns when we went flying?’ ... but he was careful to keep a respectful distance. Ratchet was armed and dangerous, after all. Those wings, though! They were so _tiny_ and so _flappy_ and it was hard not to lose a tail fin over them.

Behind Ratchet, Acid Storm leaned over offered a soft series of clicks, a _chir-chir-chir_ sort of noise. It was a form of binary sparklet-talk and the newborn squeaked back in a Cybertronian version of … _here I am!_ … and the Armada replied to that little greeting with noisy blasts of rhyme-binary and silent wing-speak twitches and the newborn was beside his little self for all the attention.

'I call dibs on showing him how to strife-bomb,” Acid Storm informed the others with stern wing-flicks. 'Also, I get to be primary wing-mate at his induction into ranks.'

'You can’t call due on two things at once!' Nova Storm protested with wilting wings. Besides, he'd called wing-mate already. It was a traditional honor for youngsters to be introduced to senior Vosian flyers, and inducted into Vosian society. They could all remember standing proud between wing-mates from their accomplished flight-family members.

So, so long ago…

'Good luck collecting on that,' Thrust flicked with an audible snort. 'No way in the Pit you are getting him away from that medic.' There were more wing-flicks of agreement from the group, though tempered with understanding and admiration. Ratchet had beaten respect into them as well as any Decepticon in his place might, and his prowess was well regarded.

Curious for the gregarious wing flicking from the Armada seekers, Optimus glanced at Ratchet and they shared a look and then a shrug. From their perspective, there was a crowd of Seekers standing around and flexing their wings and offering sparklet-noises, and it was all rather ... disarming, really.

Silly, almost.

Ratchet offered up a nonchalant grunt. _They’ve_ _done right by me,_ and Optimus rumbled appreciation for that, even as Ratchet ignored the crowd of admirers and settled back down in his chair. Ratchet got comfortable and then gestured at Optimus to take the chair next to him, but Optimus waved away the offer. He wanted to stay on his pedes as the chair was too low to the ground for his liking. He was worried that getting back out of it without help might not be possible and wanted to avoid any awkward moments.

Especially with the Decepticon Elite clustered all around them.

Optimus couldn't help but startle when Skywarp appeared amidst the clustered Armada without warning beyond his signature _wharp_. No one else reacted though, all accustomed to sudden visitations by 'Warp. It was all well and fine, right up to the point that 'Warp grandly snapped his wings and informed them he was calling wing-mate and asked, "is the Hatchet letting you guys hold Little-Aft-Wings yet?”

Up sprang all sorts of affronted wings, and wing-shouts of 'that’s not his name!' accosted Skywarp, who disappeared with a _wharp_ as a wrench conked off his helm in retaliation not a half-instant before he vanished to safety; Ratchet was learning to time his throws better.

Optimus blinked in askance at Ratchet, who just gave him another look. It was a look Optimus was very familiar with, thanks to being stationed with Ratchet and the twins before.

No patience for bored pranksters here, _no sir._

Outmatched and outgunned, The Prime lifted his one free servo in surrender.

A moment later and a dark servo landed on his shoulder. One swift intake of breath and he shivered as a very familiar electromagnetic field traced along his own. Two strong fields collided and embraced like they had been made for each other and Optimus turned as Megatron leaned in.

Red eyes met blue, and there were no words...

...only the brush of lips and a kiss of greeting as all around them burst into whistles and shouts and cheery cries.

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Sunstreaker whispered.

It was just into the sleeping-cycle, and Sideswipe was recharging inside Ion Storm's nest. Ion Storm had stepped away for a moment, and once again, Sunstreaker had snatched at the opportunity. The two of them had been waging a war over Sideswipe the last few weeks, stealing him back and forth, with neither spending enough time with him to be satisfied and currently they were stuck at a standstill.

Sunstreaker may be an accomplished fighter, but Ion Storm had his trine to back him up.

Things hadn't escalated to the point that Command was called in to mediate, which was a good thing for Sunstreaker, because it wouldn't end well; his guardian coding remained inactive. But the Rainmakers were a proud trio of fighters, and weren't willing to go crying to authority, and so the fighting went on and on. Both Ion Storm and Sunstreaker were looking a little ragged for it, and seeing them fighting each other upset Sideswipe, who demanded them both, but neither wanted to tolerate the other.

Shaking his brother awake, Sunstreaker settled down next to him and pulled something out of his subspace with a conspirator’s grin. He'd bribed Skywarp to steal the headset, a piece of cake for the deft and mischievous Skywarp.

“Got this for you,” Sunstreaker murmured as Sideswipe stirred and sat up. If he noticed 'Sides slight frown he didn't show it, and offered the little device to his brother instead. They needed to talk, and he was slag at charades.

The first few moments were intense and Sideswipe struggled with the device. Of all the injured Autobots, he'd acclimated to his new condition the quickest. Spontaneous by nature, and lacking the burdens of authority and command, he'd been able to let go completely and just wander through his current life moment by moment.

The shock of having words again was hard on him, and Sideswipe winced and hunched his shoulders, scratching at the headset over his helm. The return of thought and voice was more bitter then sweet to him. The device plugged the hole in his mind, but the gibberish and delays in translation was giving his processor a helm-ache.

Prowl had his battle computer to sort, catalogue, and otherwise handle the oddness, but Sideswipe didn’t, and the headset was almost worse than the yawning silence and sucking abyss in his mind. He was sinking towards the healing sleep too, now, but he wasn’t afraid.

"... Sun ... Shine?"

A massive grin brightened Sunstreaker's face. "Don't call me that."

He surged forward then and hugged his brother, and almost on rout, Sideswipe hugged him back. There was an edge in his electromagnetic fields, though, one Sunstreaker had been encountering every time he touched his brother. It felt of fear ... of embarrassment and a deep sense of shame.

Sunstreaker swallowed, and squeezed his brother harder and didn't say a word for it. Instead he focused on their harsh reality. "I need to talk to you," Sunstreaker pulled back, though he kept a firm grip on his brother. "You have to tell those fragging jets to back off. They won't listen to me, and I can't overwhelm them, not here."

Sideswipe winced, rubbing at his helm as circuits made reluctant connections, and understanding followed after. "I don't want them ... don't want him ... to back off," he said, trying hard not to flinch at the sudden harshness that leapt into Sunny's optics. "Want you both."

"You don't need him," Sunstreaker insisted, and his fingers tightened to the point that they made 'Sides flinch. Realizing that, Sunny loosened his fingers, but didn't release his brother. "I will protect you."

Sideswipe wasn't sure what to say to that. 

Protection was all well and fine, but he felt safe here, and there was far more to his relationship with Ion Storm and his trine then mere protection. He wasn't sure how to explain, but Ion Storm was good for him right now, and he wasn't willing to let Sunstreaker drive his guardian mech away. The interplay between the two sets of coding had something to do with his possessive and needy frame, but beyond that, Ion Storm _understood_. He used his hands and frame in a way that satisfied and satiated and comforted, and right now 'Sides needed that.

Ion Storm had explained to him that he'd helped battered mechs before. It made sense, because he seemed to know just what to say and do to help, and Sideswipe wasn't willing to part with him. But he wasn't sure how to explain this to his brother in a way Sunny wouldn't find offensive. He didn't want to upset his brother, but he knew what he wanted, and he wasn't one to quietly back down.

Reaching out, Sideswipe grabbed Sunstreaker's face. "Want you both," he repeated, deciding on the direct approach as he wasn't one to expound on his feelings. He saw his brother bristle for that, but shook his helm. "No more fighting, seriously," and started tugging on the headset. He didn't like the strange feel of it, and he wasn't so put out by charades...

"Wait," Sunstreaker insisted.

Sunstreaker was frustrated that 'Sides wasn't cooperating and it showed in his harsh expression - what did that stupid winged bastard have that _he_ didn't? - but he could tell that 'Sides wasn't handling the headset well, and he still had one last question. He was slag at being sensitive, but there was an elephant in the room, one he felt he needed addressed ... about their future and what Sideswipe wanted from it.

Sunstreaker leaned close and touched the faint curve of Sideswipe's belly. Of all of them, Sideswipe was the furthest out, for reasons no mech should ever have to endure. “Do you want it?” Sunstreaker asked, his voice soft and quiet. “Because if you don’t,” and here Sunny offered up his fist. He’d do anything for his brother, even the unspeakable, and his optics glittered as he offered, “I can make that happen and _frag_ those uppity jets. What do _you_ want?”

It was a hell of a question and put so ... bluntly.

Sideswipe struggled with the concepts, not knowing what to do. He wanted to do the right thing, but thanks to his circumstances, he wasn't sure what that was. Without words, he couldn't explain or ask for help, not really, and so he'd stopped thinking about it. It wasn't a good way to handle his problems, because he knew he couldn't just let things happen, but...

“Not … sure,” Sideswipe said finally, and winced again. The problem was, he wasn’t sure if he could keep it. He didn’t want to talk about it, never brought it up, and was trying to put off his dreadful reality as long as possible. “Don’t know if things will be okay,” Sideswipe said with a shrug. He seemed content to leave it at that, not wanting to face what was coming.

Sunstreaker didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

Ion Storm took this moment to return, sliding to a halt when he saw the familiar flash of gold. The golden twin had found their new nest, as he always did. Ion Storm suspected Sunstreaker had reforged their spark bond, but hadn't asked. He understood having overbearing brothers sticking their nasal sensors and inquisitive wings into family business, but the golden twin was hard to like.

Then Ion Storm recognized Prowl’s stolen headset and the particular brand of trouble that might bring, and Sideswipe shot him a miserable look. Forcing a smile for the sake of diplomacy, he knelt down next to Sideswipe and turned to Sunstreaker and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Frag off,” Sunstreaker snapped. Once again he tried to threaten Ion Storm off. It didn’t work, and within moments Acid Storm and Nova Storm appeared to back their brother up.

Ion Storm waved them off with the merest flick of his wings, but they stayed within optic-range, ready to charge in if Sunstreaker attacked again. But Sideswipe's next words startled them both out of their aggressive stand off.

“Jetfire,” Sideswipe answered Sunstreaker's earlier question while intentionally ignoring the posturing around him. He'd already decided that their rivalry wasn't his problem, so long as they both stayed close to him when he needed them. The truth was that he needed all the help he could get and he refused to choose between his Seeker guardian and his brother, who could be terribly thoughtless and selfish at times.

“What do you mean, Jetfire?” Ion Storm asked, confused. Then realization dawned and his optics dropped down to the small belly-curve and Sideswipe nodded confirmation with a glum expression. It was the heart of his problem, though not immediately apparent to the two protective mechs crowded around him.

"The scientist?" Sunstreaker asked, remembering the mech as a quiet, friendly type. There was something wrong though, something about the mech that should be a problem, though Sunstreaker couldn't quite recall.

Watching their reactions, Sideswipe nodded miserably and looked like he was expecting a negative response. Ion Storm was about to say something comforting and then his optics dropped downward with a sharp, sudden frown. “Wait. Put it in reverse. Isn’t Jetfire an _interstellar_ frame type?”

Sideswipe winced, and there it was, his problem in a nutshell.

“Are you serious?” Sunstreaker howled, having caught up on the conversation and the implications of it. Now he was beside himself with alarm, and for good reason. Frame compatibility was a _thing_ , dammit! No standard size with any kind of soul would ever consider sparking up someone with the relative size of a mini-con (being sparked by a mini-con, sure, but not the other way around) and both brother and guardian looked concerned now.

“We should take you to Hook for some scans,” Ion Storm said, suddenly worried. He leaned closer. “Jetfire’s mass is … impressive. We _are_ talking about the same Jetfire, right? The one that flies your entire crew from Cybertron to Earth on occasion?”

Ion Storm glanced over at Sunstreaker and frowned for the proximity. He wanted the abrasive mech gone, but Sunstreaker wasn’t paying attention. He was still processing the news and wasn’t sure the translation was coming through properly. “I mean, Jetfire the _shuttle_?”

Sideswipe looked miserable as he watched Sunstreaker’s arms stretch as wide as possible - “ _Shuttle_ Jetfire? Big, massive, huge Jetfire?” - to fully express his incredulity.

Sideswipe sighed and nodded. It was a huge problem for all involved and the main reason he'd been putting everything out of mind. It was the mass equivalent of a human trying to birth a Cybertronian newspark; not good. Not good at all. His next words came out hesitant as he felt around the delay and general weirdness that was the communication headset.

"The Quints knew. Did it anyway. I torqued ‘em off … I hit ‘em too much … was too much trouble. They said they ... going to gut me open ... use me for all the bigger ones … ‘til I was ruined.”

“They were going to do that to you, and Jetfire helped them hurt you,” Sunstreaker said. His tone was very dark and his hands were clenched into tight fists. It was fortunate that Jetfire was out of reach, or the golden twin would have already stormed off for revenge.

A little more sensible, Ion Storm balked at that and was just about to argue when Nova Storm burst in on the conversation. “Hold your thrusters. The Quints were forcing the interfaces. They are responsible for … for the rapes, all of them. We were _all_ raped. You can’t hold Jetfire responsible for that.”

It sounded almost odd to hear a Decepticon seeker defend an absentee Autobot shuttle. Nova Storm’s words were intense, but he seemed nervous, though it wasn’t immediately apparent why.

Ratchet would understand, though he never looked Nova Storm in the optic when they stood near each other. Nor would Ratchet have said anything to Nova, if he could avoid it. It would be a painfully awkward conversation for them both, and neither was willing to go where the other didn’t wish to. Too many bad memories shared to go and poke that elephant in the room.

“Watch me,” Sunstreaker snarled, “Watch me hold him accountable for what he did,” but Sideswipe shook his helm wildly at that. Sideswipe started talking then, his voice stunted, starting and stopping randomly for his upset. His fists clenched for irritation, but he hobbled through the attempts to speak.

“They made … him do it," Sideswipe stuttered, hurting through and through, and shame was hot within him. "They shut down his … mind and they hurt him. He was begging them to spare … me, right up to the end. He woke up and … then he cried. Never seen him … cry.”

Sunstreaker snorted in disdain for Jetfire, unmoved and his optics were harsh. Sideswipe knew that look, knew what would be coming next. Phrases that started with "you should have" and "why didn't you" and "I would have" and other judgments that would reduce his sense of self-worth to tattered fragments.

Sunstreaker bared his denta, "You-"

"-know you aren't at fault for this? You know that, right? In your spark, you know?" Ion Storm cut in, and his optics flashed with intensity. "Because if you don't, then listen to me now. None of this is your fault, nor Jetfire's. You stood up for what you believed in, even in the face of ... of those horrible things. That takes a sort of courage and tenacity that I can't even imagine."

Sunstreaker slammed his intakes closed and stewed, even as the other Rainmakers whispered agreement.

Moments later Ion Storm pulled Sideswipe into his lap. "Whatever you decide, we will support you," Ion Storm flicked his wings at his trine, and glanced at Sunstreaker. "I've seen this sort of thing play out before, and there are ways to help you and your infant, if you want to. Again, we support whatever you need to do, okay?" and Ion Storm nuzzled a relieved-looking Sideswipe even as Sunstreaker bristled again.

But Sideswipe’s intense gaze never faltered and Sunstreaker finally dropped his helm and let it go. “ _Now_ what do we do?”

“Give this back to Prowl,” Sideswipe gasped. “Can’t stand it anymore,” and he tugged the device off his helm and handed it over. It was the end of the conversation, but all three remained pensive.

"He still has time before this gets serious," Ion Storm offered to Sunstreaker, who was staring down at his now-quiet brother. "He doesn't have to decide now. He needs time to process. You can't force or rush this."

"Maybe." Sunstreaker said, but his optics were glittering and he was working his jaw. Sideswipe hadn't answered the question and wouldn't look him in the optic anymore. Sunstreaker knew what he wanted and balled a fist, and the tension in the room rose exponentially as he considered their options. "Assuming we get off this rock anytime soon."

Ion Storm didn't back down a micron from the threat from Sideswipe's fierce and querulous twin. "He wants me here, and I am going to help him. We can't keep doing this."

But it was Sideswipe who'd had enough. He reached forward and grabbed a light blue wing, and then grabbed his brother's helm vent, and pulled them both forward. He tugged them close and then closer, and pressed his helm against them both.

 _Need you both..._ and Sideswipe spoke the final word without saying, and finally, _finally_ , Sunstreaker set his own desires to the side for the sake of someone else. He dropped his helm in surrender and - for now - the duo became a trio.


	24. Liberation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a dead starship flies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter!

Long Haul was snarling in his HUD again.

Thundercracker thumbed down the audial volume for internal comms and focused on the rushing roar of accusations. It took a few stilted questions before he was able to piece together the problem; Prowl's precious headset had gone missing. 

And right now, the Constructicons were fit to be tied.

They'd pulled what amounted to an all-nighter, carefully jerry-rigging a timer-based array of smart bombs along the ceiling of the Courtyard. Strategically placed, they would drop the ceiling in waves, allowing their sorry excuse for a ship to escape up into the atmosphere. It had been somber work, as each bomb placed had to be situated _just so_ , and it was a reminder just how much was riding on the back of the rusty ship.

Long Haul had only just relaxed into recharge when he'd been jolted awake to discover the universe was crumbling down around him (as according to Prowl). Whistles and clicks and frantic gestures and shaking door-wings had descended upon him like a raging tempest. But it was Prowl's crude mimicking of the _wharp_ sound that pointed the proverbial finger at Skywarp as the culprit.

Now Long Haul was sitting upright in his berth, servo to his helm as he snarled his grievances in TC's audials over private comms. Short fuse lit and burning brightly, he was furious to have been woken at the aft-crack of dawn by the frantic, voiceless member of his gestalt losing his donuts (metaphorically speaking) all over his armature.

It was only Long Haul's respect for Thundercracker that had him using the comm line and not his fists to right this wrong, giving the Air Commander an opportunity to fix the problem without shots fired.

Thundercracker stifled a grumble. Of all the pranks Skywarp could pull – and with all the choices of victims available! – why oh Primus why would he pick _them_? It wasn't as if 'Warp didn't know that the Constructicons were not ones with whom to frag!

More snarling from Long Haul blasted his audials, and Thundercracker nodded with a placating gesture, even though his fellow commander couldn't see it. <I will get Prowl's headset back. I don't know what is going on, but I _will_ get to the bottom of it. >

<Getting _sick_ of this– >

Long Haul's complaint cut off mid-rant as Thundercracker disconnected from the line with a wing-flick of relief. Then he pinged Skywarp to _get back here_... and pronto!

Unaware of Sunstreaker's little deal with Skywarp for the headset, as far as Thundercracker knew this was just another thoughtless prank. He wasn't looking forward to confronting 'Warp again. Not for the first time did he wish things were how they used to be. It had always been Starscream's responsibility to rein in their ever-playful trine mate, and now that it was his bag to hold, he was less than thrilled.

_Wharp!_

Obedient to a fault (in that particular instant, anyway) Skywarp appeared next to him, optics bright with mischief. "You need something, oh second best-est of all commanders?"

Thundercracker ignored the playful jab, and the twinge of pain memory offered him. Skywarp’s random, cheeky greetings had always infuriated Starscream, never failing to provoke a high-pitched snap or two, to Skywarp’s endless amusement. This was one of Skywarp's more irritating ways of showing affection, and he had long given up on trying to change that.

It was another reminder of loss, but it helped that Skywarp's face was bright with happiness. He must have warped in from the communal showers, as his plating was slick and shiny. Perceptor was tucked against his back plates, also shiny-clean with his engine purring. From the sound of him, Perceptor had enjoyed his shower in more ways than one.

Currently, Percy was resting against Skywarp's back, held safe and comfortable in a soft harness made of scraps of thermal blankets, which was all well and good, except...

...he wasn't the only one.

Thundercracker frowned at the _two_ scientists, currently nestled together between the span of Skywarp's dark wings.

While Perceptor was Skywarp’s constant companion, Wheeljack was supposed to be Nova Storm’s responsibility. Thundercracker knew there was some trouble between Skywarp and the Rainmakers over ‘Jack, but no one had come to him with any specific complaints.

He’d seen Skywarp snatching Wheeljack here and there, and knew that Nova Storm had responded to 'Warp's thievery by roping in his brothers to try and steal both 'Jack _and_ Percy. It all seemed rather light-sparked, but Skywarp wasn’t relenting, and as such, was something of a hunted mech. Nova Storm was intensely protective over his adopted mate, but the equally committed Skywarp wasn't one to practice restraint, and so the back and forth continued. With the way things were going, the battle wouldn't end until the two scientists were awake enough to lay down the law as they so desired.

And apparently, Skywarp had been out raiding again. It was one more grievance to add to his list, and Thundercracker stared pointedly at the stolen Wheeljack, then back at Skywarp with a long-suffering frown. The headset issue was momentarily forgotten in the rush of criticisms he needed to levy against his trine mate. 

Oh for the love of Primus, where to start...  "Didn't we talk about this?” Thundercracker demanded, his wings stern and optics sterner. “I don't want you warping with any carrying mechs unless it's an emergency."

"Oh come on!" Skywarp burst out while throwing his servos up in exasperation, his wings tilting with offense. "It's _me_. I'm being careful and warping hasn't ever hurt anybody!"

Thundercracker blinked at that. Skywarp’s wings twitched. Okay, now that was an outright lie and ‘Warp smirked and amended, "No one I didn't _intend_ to hurt…"

Thundercracker closed his eyes and began rubbing at his nasal ridge. His HUD was quiet now, but the beginnings of a helm ache was already on the way. "I don't care. We have an agreement about care, and that was part of it."

Speaking of agreements... and Thundercracker barreled onward, “I thought I assigned Wheeljack to Nova Storm–”

Skywarp's grip tightened around his two little mates and he beat TC to the punch. "He was by himself! They left him alone! 'Jack was all by himself!"  His wings flared in outrage as he insisted, "He was freaked and clicking for me!"

There was a small chance that was true, Thundercracker knew. It wouldn't surprise him if Nova Storm had stepped away for a few moments to back Ion Storm up as the Rainmakers were clashing almost daily with Sunstreaker. That little problem was a mess and a half, though neither party had complained yet.

Other than checking that Sideswipe was being well-treated, TC had been waiting for a formal complaint before moving in as he was a firm believer in mechs handling their own damned business. Thankfully, things had been quieter on that front for the last few nights. Was it too much to hope Ion Storm and Sunstreaker had worked out their differences? It would be a nice change of pace; problems going away instead of thundering their way to his doorstep.

"Is that all?" Skywarp complained, "Because if you wanted to have at me you could have just used comms and then I wouldn't have warped with them and then you wouldn't have anything to complain about, so if you _think_ about it, this is all _your_ fault–"

"Do you have Prowl's headset?" Thundercracker growled, at the end of his patience.

Skywarp's optics went perfectly round. Then he switched to wing-speak so to retain his most innocent of expressions. 'Headset? Why would you think I had anything to do with a–'

'Prowl is _upset_ ,' Thundercracker wing-snapped at Skywarp, 'and so the Constructicons are _upset_. The choices are, give the headset back – now! – or Long Haul is going to deal with this personally.'

Though 'upset' was a rather tame word. Long Haul was more than upset. Long Haul was _torqued clean off_ and was, at that exact moment, thundering down the main corridor towards the Air Commander’s cell-room with a grim-faced Prowl in his wake.

Thundercracker caught sight of them approaching and his wings lifted in alarm, even as he slapped a palm over his lower face to hide his expression. It was deathly hard not to snicker, even for the stormfront on approach.

A few days prior, Prowl had passed the point where walking had become waddling. Door wings flared full-mast, the Datsun was waddle-stomping down the middle of the corridor, with Long Haul off to the side. He was straight-backed and confident, supremely _beautiful_ in his waddle-authority, even when he stumbled and had to flap his wings to keep his balance. His death-grip on Long Haul's arm was absolute, and he was simultaneously slowing Long Haul down whilst urging him to thunder faster. 

Less amusing was the way Prowl was rubbing at his helm, unable to formulate thought and grievously upset for it. Even with the pang his spark offered for the sight, Thundercracker couldn't help but think it was an improvement.

Prowl had taken all the forced surgeries very personally. It was understandable, but underhanded murder wasn’t a good solution, at least not right now. TC had made some backdoor inquiries on Megatron's behalf. Long Haul had looked offended and Scavenger had insisted over and over that the teleporter malfunction was an accident, but the apologetic way Mixmaster kept glancing at Prowl was most telling.

Prowl was either fortunate, or was counting on the fact that the Decepticons took such matters less seriously then Autobots.

Lord Megatron considered assassination attempts a form of personal challenge instead of an official matter requiring investigation and the application of formal laws and punishments. He'd shrugged off Prowl's murder attempts and was practicing amazing amounts of tolerance. That he was responsible for Prowl's forced initiation into the ranks of the Constructicons helped matters greatly... at least in this brave new era.

 _Tromp, tromp, tromp,_ came Long Haul's pedes down the corridor.

 _Waddle, waddle, waddle_ , came Prowl's much lighter ones and Thundercracker knew his time was up. He turned to Skywarp and extended his hand – ‘fork over the headset, lame wings!’ – but an intruding _ping_ sounded in his HUD, and Lord Megatron connected to his comms.

<Bring the headset to me,> Megatron ordered straight away, and Thundercracker had no idea how he even knew. <I need the device for Prime, and then I will return it to Prowl myself. We are long overdue for a chat.>

Skywarp, seeing Thundercracker’s conflicted expression, flicked his wings inquisitively.

'Now Megatron wants the headset,' Thundercracker flicked in reply. He wasn’t sure what to do anymore, as Long Haul was nearly at the door and wanted the headset too. Beside him, Skywarp was just settling down to enjoy the chaos when a flash of bright yellow wings startled him.

Realizing he’d been discovered, Skywarp froze as Nova Storm's aggrieved voice called, "Sir, have you seen Skywarp anywhere–"

“–there he is!” Underbite thrust his head around the cell-room door and clacked his beak in triumph. One instantaneous _wharp_ later, and Skywarp was gone.

And with him went Perceptor.

And Wheeljack.

...and the headset.

Thundercracker face-palmed.

Standing frozen in the doorway, Long Haul's optic twitched. Upon hearing that guilty-sounding warp, he started grinding his denta and it was obvious he was weighing out the value of his informal alliance with the Seeker Armada verses the more visceral need to pound the _ever loving bolts_ out of Skywarp for such feckless prankery. Of course that would mean beating down the Air Commander himself and then the entirety of the Seeker Armada as they would all rally to defend their own.

Decisions, decisions.

“Megatron demanded the headset,” Thundercracker said in a rush, more than willing to pass the buck. “He said he needs it for Prime tonight, and that he will return it himself because he wants to _have a chat_ with Prowl.”

No vicious beat downs needed here, please and thank you.

Long Haul hesitated. There were plenty of reasons Megatron might desire a spark-to-spark with his team mate, and dealing with the Slagmaker was escalation on an entirely different level, and now _he_ wasn’t sure what to do.

Prowl couldn’t understand the hesitation, and aggressively pointed at Thundercracker. _Get on with it! I want my equipment back!_

Clenching his bare fists, Prowl set his pedes and bonked Long Haul with his belly, with enough force that the heavy hauler actually had to shift his pedes a half-micron.  

Thundercracker gingerly stepped out and away from Long Haul and the ring of Constructicons forming around Prowl. He watched the gentle way Long Haul held the furious Prowl, and then the heavy hauler started tapping at his helm, and it was obvious that he was contacting Megatron to confirm.

Watching them interact from a safer distance, Thundercracker realized how narrowly he’d evaded the Decepticon version of a diplomatic incident (aka untimely thrashing) as he watched the Constructicons batter the far wall instead of _him_.

Meanwhile, Nova Storm had his own problems. Whirling on his shapely heel, the cheery-yellow Rainmaker shouted down the hall, "He's done it again!"

Ion Storm grinned – relieved it was one of his brothers instead of _him_ calling for help – as Acid Storm started crabbing about having to hunt down stolen carriers _yet_ _again_. 

Nova Storm began storming back towards his brothers, who were standing in the corridor, carefully shifting their pedes as they realized the trash-drifts around them held any number of lurking Junkions, and they were trying not to step on any of them.

“Nova Storm,” Thundercracker called after him, “are you three having a problem with Skywarp?”

Regaining his confidence, Thundercracker snapped his wings, signaling he meant business and wanted honesty. If the Rainmakers were willing to make this a formal thing, he’d feel far better about dropping the hammer on his trine-mate. If Skywarp’s playful back and forth was becoming that much of a problem, then there could be no question between them that ‘Warp had crossed the line.

The Air Commander’s question spotlighted the trio-turned-quintet and Nova Storm cutoff mid-snarl and Acid Storm froze and Ion Storm stiffened while Sunstreaker snorted (then panicked when Sideswipe made a motion for _you have something on your face_ and Sunny bolted away for his cell-room and a mirror).

As with Sunstreaker and Ion Storm’s little spat, the Rainmakers hadn’t formally complained to Command about Wheeljack, preferring to deal with personal matters on their own. But this little incursion was too obvious to ignore, and Thundercracker stepped closer and repeated, “Is there some kind of problem here?”

 _Just complain about him so I can **drop the hammer** you proud-wing bastards_ , Thundercracker didn’t say, but as they were very much a flock of pride-wings, they didn’t grant him his wish.

“Not at all,” chirped Nova Storm through violently clenched denta. He forced his lips upward into a ghoulish attempt at a smile when his Air Commander didn’t look convinced.

“No problems we can’t handle ourselves, Air Commander!” Ion Storm called from further down the corridor as Acid Storm forced his crabby wings into a more relaxed (though no less irritated) slant.

“We got everythin’ handled,” Underbite blustered, and the Rainmakers nodded agreement, even as Thundercracker looked surprised to see Underbite milling around with them. He watched as the Chompazoid started sniffing around as if trying to catch Skywarp’s scent-trail. His worth to the Rainmakers was obvious.

Thundercracker frowned at them, but he couldn’t force them to complain. It didn’t help matters that the sort of hands-on reprisal the Rainmakers were craving – the same sort Long Haul was just about to deliver – wouldn’t happen at Thundercracker’s servos. This was one change that the Armada wasn’t too keen on.

Starscream had always performed his duty as Air Commander to the letter, family ties be damned, and it had driven a wedge between him and Skywarp. It was a sacrifice Thundercracker just wasn’t willing to make, and so Skywarp still enjoyed a certain amount of leniency, especially now that he was making some attempt to toe the line. It was a form of professional failure, and TC’s wings twitched despite himself.

Why did command life have to be so damned difficult?

A rustling at his side caught his attention, and TC realized the Junkion infested trash-drifts were leaning _away_ from Underbite and the business end of his razor-sharp beak. No small numbers of them had met their ends there, and it was a reminder of past history, a taint that would take Underbite some time to distance himself from.

Distracted, Thundercracker stood tall for a few moments, offering a few comforting words to his Junkion charges. By the time he looked back, the opportunity had passed, and the Rainmakers were off to rescue Wheeljack whilst shouting various battle cries.

…

Nearby, the rest of the Constructicons were regrouping.

Long Haul was re-evaluating his prior marching orders, much to his team’s disappointment (and Prowl’s complete confusion). “He’s so angry,” Mixmaster whined while trying to coax Prowl closer, “And I thought we were going to break stuff.” Prowl only pushed him away and rounded back on Long Haul.

“Why aren’t we kicking aft?” Scavenger asked, frustrated.

Hook grunted agreement. “Aft-kickery was definitely implied in your summons. I even selected a suitably blunt section of pipe to assist.” Hefting said implement, the rest of the Constructicons could only nod in agreement, as it _was_ suitably blunt.

Lots of useful bluntness, there.

“Come on,” Long Haul muttered as he moved his team to a clearer area. “This situation is worse than I thought, so hold off.”

As he walked, Long Haul tried again to open a private line with Megatron, only to meet with a busy line. Apparently Megatron was already speaking with someone else, and his inclusion in the situation meant things had gone from straightforward aft-beating to three shades of _complicated_.

For Prowl though, the delay was equal measures of inexplicable and intolerable. Still confused and upset, he followed after the slowly retreating Long Haul with slanted door-wings. His thin lips tightened into an even thinner line for the distinct lack of corporal punishment and retrieval of critical equipment.

Beside himself with upset, Prowl began pushing at Long Haul insistently. He had no other way to communicate the depths of his distress – there wasn’t a table within range for flipping. Seeing no progress made, he finally escalated to an open-palmed whacking, and it was proof positive how comfortable he’d grown around his new team that he was willing to engage them on a physical level without the slightest concern for reprisal in kind.

To be fair, Prowl’s bare-servo whacks were more of an insistent nudge than anything else; Scavenger’s random _sneezes_ were more damaging. Still, Prowl’s angry clicking and insistent whacking continued and the Constructicons closed ranks around him.

“I know, I know, give me a minute,” Long Haul muttered through all the whacking, though he made no attempt to escape Prowl’s controlling grip. “I am trying to contact Megatron about the headset. You know we can’t just break _him_.”

They’d already tried some vorns ago, during the tail end of the Big Push. Megatron had stood up to them at their worst; back when Scrapper had led the team and Devastator was the Biggest Bad in the Decepticons.

Megatron had held his own, had fought them to a standstill and they’d never forgotten it. With his upgraded armature rig, Megatron had been a match for them before the Quint invasion. Even now, even beaten down and weakened for captivity, there remained a shared memory of him roaring up at Devastator for _more, more, give me more_ …

…but they hadn’t had anything left.

It wasn’t a battle easily forgotten. Long Haul could tell the rest of his team were disappointed they weren’t needed for a daring headset rescue mission involving mayhem and the various breakings of things. But as long as Long Haul was acting team lead, they weren’t facing Megatron down in any sort of straightforward combat. Beyond the physical, the truth was that with Megatron’s popularity soaring right now, they might as well declare war on the entire penitentiary.

With the Armada and Bruticus so close at hand, it wouldn’t end well for them, and with that thought, Long Haul’s insistent pings to Megatron finally connected.

<Sir, I have a situation–>

Megatron stopped him cold. <I appreciate your lending of Prowl's equipment to Prime. I desire his council on a few matters of importance.>

Long Haul frowned over his shoulder at the sudden rack of coughing in the background from Mixmaster, harsh bursts of noise that sounded like _bullslag!_

Long Haul's audial feed crackled as he turned and hushed his subordinate, and then returned his attention to the comm line. <When you are finished, let me know and I will come around and pick it up? Prowl would like it back as soon as possible.>

<I will return it to him myself,> Megatron replied. Long Haul was relieved when Megatron ignored the second round of noisy coughing from Mixmaster, which sounded suspiciously like _no fragging way!_

<I appreciate Prowl’s patience in this matter,> Megatron said, and Long Haul flinched as the line went dead.

Hook, Mixmaster, and Scavenger were crowding closer. “We breakin’ stuff yet?” Mix asked again, now with a look of dwindling hope, but Long Haul waved them down. The last word had been spoken by Glorious Leader, and there was nothing within reason that he could do about it.

Rubbing at his face mask in irritation, Long Haul winced when a trill of demanding clicks from Prowl brought him back to the present. “We have to wait,” Long Haul admitted to them. “Megatron needs to use the headset for a consultation with Prime, and he says he will return it after.” That was the final say on the subject, and they could tell by the way Long Haul slumped in place.

Hook, Mix, and Scavenger shared a groan.

Prowl didn’t like the look of _that_ in the slightest, but he calmed as Long Haul pulled him closer to try and explain.

“We will get your headset back, alright?” Using halting gestures, Long Haul made himself understood with agonizing slowness and continued, “You are one of us, and whatever slag is coming, we got your back.”

His motions were matched by his slow words, spoken aloud for the benefit of the rest of the team who were crowding supportively around him.

Prowl didn’t understand that, but he did get the gist of _working on it_ , and that was satisfactory. Appeased for now, he’d finally stopped with the physical motivational tactics (not that he could hurt so much as a cyber-fly in his state) though Mixmaster offered his own plating if Prowl still needed an outlet.

Instead, Prowl leaned on Mix as they started back towards their med-station, workshop, and treasure hole together. Stumbling a bit, Prowl found himself deluged with offers of help and comfort.

Giving in to his growing exhaustion for the hectic morning, Prowl accepted Long Haul’s offer to carry him as waddle-stomping was incredibly tiring. As vicious and violent as they may be, and for better or for worse, he was one of _them_ now, and they were all committed to him.

It was far from ideal, but such was life, and Prowl was nothing if not pragmatic. He would take these murderous lemons and make murderous lemonade out of them.

…

Watching the crowd of restless Constructicons stomping away with downcast expressions – Prowl nestled safely within Long Haul’s arms – the wary Underbite continued to follow Skywarp’s faint scent markers, searching for any stronger scent eddies.

The penitentiary was too small for any prolonged hiding, at least if you weren’t a mini-con. The ventilation systems spread scents far and wide, and for a hunter like Underbite, it was just a matter of time.

Charged with sniffing out Skywarp for his new Rainmaker buddies, Underbite was chaffing under all the chatter around him. He was a loner by nature and not happy with his situation, but was forced to appear friendly. He’d been making slow progress with the rest of his faction, to the point that mechs no longer shot hateful glances at him every time he dared show his beak in public.

That morning the Rainmakers had approached him with their little problem, and for the sake of useful alliances he’d agreed to help guard Wheeljack against sticky-fingered purple seekers. Returning to the nest, they’d found Wheeljack already gone, with some alien's servo left in his place, fingers folded into obscene gestures.

Skywarp may as well have left a signature.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Ion Storm grumbled as they headed down the Bailiwick’s main passage to begin their hunt. Incensed, Nova Storm flared his wings in agreement. “He has to be _stopped!”_

“This far! And no farther!” Acid Storm yelled, getting into the spirit of things.

Underbite could appreciate the sentiment. Nothing like a good fight to get the energon flowing…

Out in the corridor, the Junkions were buried in the dreck as close to Thundercracker as he would allow. They heard the ruckus and grew excited, though they stayed hidden out of respect for Underbite’s beak.

Brawl, too, must have heard the Rainmaker’s semi-serious battle cries as he’d started belting out a few classics. His offerings were Cybertronian _and_ human, and even a mix of the two, much to the Junkion’s delight.

“Death to the heretics and weighty ducks!” one of the Junkions shouted helpfully after the Rainmakers, followed by “wash, rinse, repeat until victorious!”

“She’s a witch! A witch!” Another Junkion howled, and then Brawl's gleeful battle-cry followed after, "Despoil the car-bots and slay the sheep-droids!"

“Hey!” Pipes shouted back, sounding offended.

Standing next to him (but still well within critical retreating distance to the Dynobot cuddle pile) Bluestreak concurred in his usual fashion:

“–remember when battle cries had some dignity, for example ‘Autobots rollout’ or even Megatron’s ‘Decepticons rise up,’ but back then ‘bots didn’t just throw these things around lightly, they actually _meant_ something instead of all the catch phrasing you hear now, I think the last time I heard a real good battle cry was the fight at Blackout Junction when Deathsaurus was ordered to charge down with his battalion into our fortress guns to draw fire, I don’t know if you remember but that was our heavy artillery wing and we were full power and waiting and it was a _suicide run_ for sure but Megatron didn’t seem to give a _slag_ and then Deathsaurus jumped up on that battlement wall and convinced all those Decepticons to defect _right there_ and Megatron saw them trying to _flee for their lives_ and he cut them off and then we opened fire and Deathsaurus and his mechs were pinned between us and Megatron’s elite and Deathsaurus _busted aft_ to the front of ‘con lines to face Megatron down and he did it, he stared down ol’ Megs and they were _face to face_ and then Deathsaurus shouted the most _intense_ battle cry I ever heard–”

Meanwhile, everyone within hearing range was edging away, which only made Blue’s words come out faster.

Sensing his growing upset, Pipes tugged on Bluestreak with a polite, “Isn’t Deathsaurus the one with the rogue warworld?” and started pulling Blue back towards the safety of the Dynobot nests where Slag, Sludge, and Snarl were settled and watching.

Switching tracks, Bluestreak began reciting everything he knew about the giant interstellar fortress. The words kept coming, more intense now for the cruelty of his captivity. This was the reason he’d wanted to keep his gag; without Rung’s therapy sessions he felt he was spiraling out of control. Even so, his wings relaxed by several fractions when the three sets of optics watching his approach reflected only an accepting interest.

Even with the supportive mechs around him, Bluestreak remained sensitive to all the mechs edging away from him. In all honesty though, it was Brawl’s ever more insipid battle cries that were clearing the corridors.

“For pony!” Brawl shouted, reaching deep for the random references, and mechs like Onslaught were getting more and more confused by the moment.

All but the Junkions, of course.

“Run away! Run away!” shouted back the enthusiastic Junkions, and they were matching Brawl cry for cry now, howling and honking like an over-stimulated flock of seagulls. Their noise _almost_ drowned out a strange, desperate wheezing sound from the Combaticon’s corner of the Bailiwick.

Pipes waved at Bluestreak to help interrupt the course of word-flow and then whispered, “It’s getting worse.”

Bluestreak switched topics on the fly, “–you are right, Onslaught _is_ sounding worse and worse and somebody should say something, I mean, just because he’s in a position of authority doesn’t mean he can skip out on medical care, remember how he dragged _me_ into the med-station so it’s only fair someone drags _him_ , which reminds me of the time when we were fighting in the trenches at Nova Point and the ‘cons dropped that gas, you remember the one, right Pipes? That greenish mist that hung in the atmosphere and wouldn’t dissipate, and everyone was coughing and hacking, even the ‘cons because of course they hadn’t bothered to inoculate the MTOs, you know the ones, the Made-To-Order soldiers like Deathsaurus, because their life spans were so low, and it got so bad everyone was staggering around and coughing out their internals and then the medics started dragging the newbie ‘Con MTOs to the Autobot med-tents because _frag the war_ , they were just _babies_ and they started screaming about the DJD and to just leave them, but all the stronger Autobots started hauling them for help anyway and you could just tell they were only breems old ‘cause they were all _crying_ like little–”

Bluestreak was kind-sparked, as many of the Autobots were. His cheerful-sounding chatter was in direct contrast to his worried expression as Onslaught was the next mech that needed to book an appointment with Hook. This couldn’t have been more obvious from the sounds of choked wheezing escaping the Combaticon leader, rising to a crescendo of hacking. For what else could it be but some sort of serious medical condition? After all, they sounded so _painful_.

Although he’d already forgiven the Combaticons for their role in his forced medical visit, Bluestreak wasn’t above a little revenge. Concerned for the Combaticon leader despite their rivalry, he solemnly – with only the faintest hint of glee – wrote himself a reminder to mention Onslaught's venting problems to Hook at the earliest opportunity.

Meanwhile the Rainmakers strode past the Dynobot nests, fanning out to hunt down Skywarp, and one last battle cry filled the air…

"Cry havoc," Nova Storm shouted, "and unleash the dogs of war!"

"–Chompazoids of war. I'm a _Chompazoid_ , I ain't a dog–"

…

_Wharp!_

Re-materializing outside of Megatron's quarters, Skywarp stood tall with Prowl’s headset in hand.

As far as he was concerned, Megatron's demand for it made his own transgressions null and void. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't dare frag with the Constructicons like this, but Sunstreaker's promise that he'd get Ratchet to let Skywarp babysit Little-Aft-Wings within the next few cycles had been too rich to pass up. The whole rest of the Armada was going to _drop dead_ from envy, and that suited Skywarp just fine.

And so with high-set wings, Skywarp stepped up to Megatron’s door. Then his curious nature kicked in, and before announcing himself, he risked peeking through the cracks as one never knows what useful tidbits might be learnt this way.

Wings fluttering all curious-like, Skywarp searched the gloom for Glorious Leader. He perked up as he caught sight of him standing over the Prime, who was seated in a comfortable-looking recliner.

"Come now," Megatron was saying, "I've been helping you all this time, in all manner of ways. There is no point in such prudish behavior now."

They were gesturing at each other, and it was obvious they were having some sort of conflict. Hoping for some sort of juicy scene he could recount to Thunders later, Skywarp watched as Megatron tried to lean over Prime, moving as if to reach for him, only to be pushed back by a bare pede and some rather firm gestures.

Then Skywarp startled as Wheeljack jerked against his back plates, his bare pede kicking out and glancing off the door with a knocking sound.

Megatron glanced over his shoulder at the door, and then stepped away from Prime with a little surrendering gesture and something that resembled a stern _we'll talk about this later_.

Then Megatron flared his plating and snapped it back to his frame to make himself presentable, and Skywarp stepped back and knocked loudly, pretending the first knock was intentional to cover his eavesdropping.

"Enter," Megatron called over his shoulder, already aware who was at his door and why; Air Commander Thundercracker was nothing if not resourceful.

“You asked for this,” Skywarp said, and held up the headset. His wings flicked happily when he saw how pleased Megatron was to see him.

The Constructicon’s grousing over internal comm lines had alerted Megatron to the theft of the headset, and it wasn't hard to puzzle out who might be committed enough to the art of prankery to dare such a thing. Megatron had expected a longer wait time for its delivery to his doorstep, and mentioned how nice it was to be so pleasantly surprised, even going so far to note that collecting the headset from Prowl and the Constructicons couldn't have been easy.

Stepping inside, the preening Skywarp flashed the seated (and still entrapped) Prime a playful look as he forked over the headset to Glorious Leader.

From his seated position, Prime watched them chat with inquisitive optics. Noting Megatron’s distraction, Prime made another attempt to pull himself out of his chair, but fell back for the weight on his front and the back-tilt of the chair. The little frown of frustration on Prime's face and the soft sigh of exasperation from Megatron gave Skywarp a hint for what they might have been arguing about… and a glimpse into what he might be facing in his own future. Hopefully in stereo, as chasing around a couple of waddling mechs and rescuing them from too-deep furniture would be a refreshing change of pace from millions of years of misery and war.

"Give the Air Commander my thanks," Megatron said and nodded towards the door, losing interest in small talk now that he had what he wanted. There was an eager glint in his optics, and Skywarp took the hint and turned to leave.

Glancing over his wing, Skywarp grinned as across his back, the two sleeping scientists were cuddling something fierce. He could feel their movements and their delight at being reunited was very obvious.

His delivery made, Skywarp knew it was time to scram. It was only a matter of time before that damned Chompazoid tracked him down… and he wasn’t giving up Wheeljack without a fight.

In the moment it took the near-blind Prime to realize two of his Autobots were also present, the prankster was already gone.

Gone as far as out the door, anyway.

“Found him!” Underbite called, his noisy cry far more a _squawk_ then a bay as he leapt towards the stunned Skywarp at the behest of his new Rainmaker cohorts.

“Oh _frag_ me,” Skywarp yelped when he tried to warp away, and his warp core refused to obey him. Not enough energy yet… and even _he_ wasn’t stupid enough to override it for something like this. Instead, he turned to escape the old fashioned way, cursing himself for having taken too long. He really shouldn’t have wasted so much time eavesdropping.

Around the corner, the communication console was blinking in earnest, but everyone was too busy to notice. _Scanning… scanning… positive results found,_ read the cracked readout, as the tortured device was picking up something interesting and was slowly combing through it for the desired information.

Then there was a kerfuffle as the Rainmakers caught up with Skywarp a moment later. It was a careful kerfuffle, but a kerfuffle nonetheless as Nova Storm, Acid Storm, and Ion Storm (with Sideswipe right behind him and a peevish Sunstreaker trailing after) pounced on the prankster.

They quickly realized that Skywarp had hit his limit for warping for the day because instead of making a fast escape, ‘Warp stood his ground. The shuffling noise of the slow motion battle (no one was willing to do anything fast or dangerous with Percy and 'Jack happily snoozing through the epic showdown) carried down the hall and into Megatron's quarters.

***

Unconcerned, Megatron shut out the silliness.

The sounds of the slow-motion scuffle went from sharp to muffled with the click of the door. Megatron rumbled a note of satisfaction, content to put the entire matter out of mind, but Prime was not so inclined.

"Click?" Prime asked, concerned for his sleeping Autobots. The noise outside bothered him, and If he could get out of his damned chair, he'd already be heading over to investigate. He watched as Megatron gestured as if to dismiss the entire matter, but held on to his pensive frown. The welfare of his Autobots was foremost on his mind, and he clicked again, his skeptical expression adding nuance to his clicks.

“Hardly a matter of concern,” Megatron insisted.

He was still fiddling with the finicky door, but took the time to make a fist behind his back - so that Prime could see it - and made a show of loosening it open in a relaxing gesture. _No bad intentions_ , was what he meant, though most of the meaning transferred through his tone. They were doing better with back and forth communication, but it was still hard going.

The bonds of trust remained strong between them, bolstered by the time spent together and the Predacon coding, and Prime decided to accept Megatron's offerings. Percy and Wheeljack _had_ seemed content, and right now Prime was already engaged ... for although it wasn't readily apparent, the two of them had been locked in ferocious battle only breems ago.

Holding the headset safely in hand, Megatron was under the delusion that their current truce would hold, and was most eager for the upcoming chat with Prime. His eagerness was apparent from his triumphant smile, and he rounded back on Prime. “This should help matters greatly,” he said and his lips curled back to expose a gleam of sharp denta. "I wasn't expecting such a swift..."

... and then Megatron's vocalizer trailed off at the sight of Prime’s bull-helmed expression. It had returned with a vengeance, and Megatron slid to a halt and regarded his frowning counterpart, taking in the thinned lip plating and tense frame. It looked for all the world like Prime was preparing for combat, because he absolutely was.

Unaware of the significance of Skywarp's delivery, Prime returned to their previous conflict with his usual spirit as there were three things he did know: he was a Prime, the Leader of the Autobots, and a _grown-aft mech_ accustomed to handling his own personal problems, and he did **not** need help out of his chair, dammit!

"Click," Prime said, and his warning was accompanied by hunched shoulders and a stubbornly clenched jaw. _Absolutely not. You stay over there. I can handle myself._

"I have something that will help," Megatron offered, motioning for a temporary cession of hostilities and pointing at the headset. He'd been trying to round-table with Prime for the last few hours and their "talk" had not been going well. The concepts they needed to discuss were outside the realm of simple hand gestures, much to their mutual annoyance.

One such topic was the concept of personal boundaries, an argument that was still ongoing.

Meanwhile, golden eyes had appeared for all the noise. They were peering up at Megatron from under the berth … from the safety of Prime's pedes, of course. Megatron noticed the Ammonite, now in the form of a small cat, and now it was his turn to frown.

Prime was taking great pleasure in the Ammonite’s quiet company, and seemed unaware of the true nature of the mech-animal that stuck to him like a magnet. Megatron was certain it wouldn't have mattered even if he knew. Optimus Prime had emerged from his hellish captivity with his spark intact, and in this, the Ammonite had outmaneuvered him.

Staring nervously, the Ammonite mewed, and Prime reached down and patted the tiny frame absentmindedly. _Oh, well played,_ and Megatron murmured as much to the little beast.

“Please don’t kill me,” was the soft reply.

“We’ll see,” Megatron answered and his optics narrowed into dangerous slits. "If you know what's good for you, then you will find some other place to be."

Prime was staring at Megatron now. He didn't like that tone in the slightest, and Megatron chuckled to put him at ease. It was a tight sound to match his tense mood, and Prime didn't look convinced.

"Click," Prime said, and that little burst of sound held all the weight of a firm command.

 _What bother,_ Megatron thought. With a rumble of annoyance, he made a large enough placating gesture that Prime could make it out with his damaged optics. "As you wish," he relented. Then he gave the little Ammonite another slit-opticked look and said, "Did I not advise you to leave?"

The Ammonite considered that carefully, eyeing the dark frame looming over him. He shuddered for the gruesome headset in Megatron's hands, and decided to scram for now.

Not too far, though.

Megatron watched him leave, growing more and more resigned that he might have to leave the little beast alive. He didn't want to deal with the fallout if he moved against Prime's new companion. Letting sleeping ... cats ... lie, Megatron turned back towards his consort to find that Prime had snatched at the opportunity the Ammonite's distraction had offered.

Straining, he was mid-attempt to escape his comfortable, yet nefarious chair.

It shouldn’t be such a difficult task, but although the chair was extremely comfortable, it was also tilted too far back. Scavenger had made it, and as he'd never carried before, he hadn't accounted for the needs of off-balanced carriers due to missing plating, weighted bellies, and over-eager warlords. That last one was uniquely a Prime problem, and Prime lifted another pede in threat when Megatron reached for him again.

With an irritated sigh, Megatron crossed his arms and grumbled, "You have but to give me a single klik of cooperation, and I would have you on your pedes. This is _ridiculous_ , Prime."

There was no answer beyond another stern look, and then Prime started to try and lift himself out of his chair again. But, like the last several attempts, he merely fell back after a worthy effort. He was still weak from the deprivations of captivity, not to mention the weeks of being overheated, and was only succeeding in tiring himself.

Megatron watch with growing concern as Prime was roundly defeated by gravitational forces beyond his control. Prime's heavy engine hurled almighty grumbles in the general direction of the unyielding softness all around him, but pride wouldn't let him accept any help from the dark blur nearby. He refused to be defeated by furniture!

“Prime,” Megatron tried again, stepping closer, “I must insist. This device will allow us to communicate like sane mechs again. I just need to place it on your–” but his words were interrupted. He’d gotten close enough that Prime felt the need to retaliate: he'd gently placed the flat of his pede over Megatron's face. Along with that defensive maneuver there came a firm burst of reproving clicks.

_I said no!_

Megatron blinked, startled, and stared down at the Pede of Primal Authority barring his way. Bright blue optics peered up at him, intent and intense. Prime was hunkered down and seemed ready for battle again, as ridiculous as that would be for him. Meeting those eyes, Megatron felt those bare pede-struts flex against his face and his lips quirked. Maybe he should be offended. Maybe he _would_ have been offended only a few short years ago. But today, right now, he found he could only laugh.

Awkwardly around toe-pads of course, but _still_.

“I am holding – in my hand, right here – the means to which we might have a decent conversation," Megatron said around the soft mesh against his face. "Now if you would just settle down and let me _help you_ , we might both get what we want.”

“Click,” Prime answered in the negative, and his nasal sensor wrinkled. His tone remained firm, an unyielding wall of _how about hell no._ He hadn't actually understood any of that, but the answer was _definitely_ no. Absolutely not.

"Mhm," Megatron sighed and then took a begrudging step away to reassess the situation.

It was obvious that Prime had no idea what the headset represented, and it wasn’t like he didn’t understand where Prime was coming from. Every micron as stubborn as Megatron himself, Prime was trying to set some personal boundaries again. But just as he’d faced long odds during the war, Prime was seriously over-matched in the battleground of this little room. The guardian and carrier coding had tamed some of their darker feelings towards each other after so many eons of war, but Megatron found pitting himself against Prime in this way was a novel experience.

Megatron didn't want to back off, but forced himself to give a little ground, if only for the moment. And so instead of insisting, he leaned back and waited. He was intent to prove how perfectly willing he was to let Prime struggle to his pedes on his own, assuming he was _capable_ of it.

Seeing Megatron backing off a few paces, Prime huffed, pleased for his victory, though he remained alert to keep Megatron and his too-friendly servos at bay. It was a smaller battle in the greater war, but still. That handled, he turned his attention to his next most pressing problem. He had a bigger adversary to tackle; the damned comfy chair.

Now if only the shower and the waste tank drain were a little closer. Uncomfortable, Prime shifted his weight so that his gestation tank wasn't weighing so heavily on his waste tank. Shifting again, he stopped and stared. Megatron had just narrowed his eyes and glanced at the wash racks, and that little motion was most telling.

Prime winced, not wanting to know how Megatron knew what that little wiggle meant. How long had he been sleeping, and without the antiseptic care of a proper medbay? There were certain realities of living things that had to have been handled, and he really, really didn’t want to dwell on that.

It promised to be an embarrassing train of thought, if he had the words to ride it to the inevitable conclusion. Thankfully, his upset was confined to a general feeling of unease. It was similar to the kind of worry he'd felt when he'd been bunked alone in a locked room on the Ark and _someone_   (it was totally Sideswipe) had kept rearranging his furniture and changing out his energon mugs for silly ones like ‘that’s just Prime’ and ‘keep calm and call Prime’ and ‘statistically better than the average Prime’ until he was a grumbling bundle of short circuits…

…but in his spark, he knew.

_Oh Primus._

“Already?” Megatron said as he turned back towards Prime and then set his shoulders. This situation was getting ridiculous, and he decided it was time to try and step in again. “It’s been barely a breem. Though I know I shouldn’t complain. You face the lion’s share of difficulties right now.”

Keeping up the calming talk, Megatron edged a little closer. “Though I admit I have grown used to speaking as I wish and expecting to cause no offense for it. Perhaps a bad habit.”

He was putting more effort into his tone then his uttered words, as that was how most of their communication was working right now. But he was growing impatient. He knew Prime would be much happier as soon as he could get to his pedes, visit the washracks, and then accept the headset over his helm. Prime's bull-helmed insistence on personal space was impeding all of these things, and he was getting fed up with all the useless fussing.

“–and I suppose you don’t want any help either, even though you nearly fell the last time you tried to navigate the floor.” It was another excellent reason why he should insist on helping. That floor was damned slick, hell, he’d even slipped on it a few times… 

"Click," Prime offered another warning and _you stay over there and mind yourself, thank you,_ was what he meant. He was well aware that Megatron was getting within grabbing range. Prime was under no confusion as to his intentions, kindly meant or not.

Megatron just scoffed and edged closer. “You do know there is no shame in accepting aid that is freely given, don’t you? Especially in your condition and as your optics are damaged–”

But Prime wasn’t showing any signs of relenting. His optics flashed and he raised a pede in warning. He didn't want any help, and he made that perfectly clear. Another threatening gesture, and Megatron finally decided this battle wasn’t worth the harsh frowns he was provoking from Prime, and he offered his consort a full and clear gesture of surrender.

Prime perked up at that, and the little latches on his frame twitched. If he still had plating, his armature would be flared with the pleasure of victory. It was a short-lived pleasure; Megatron had no real intention of staying away. But more than anything right now, he wanted to talk. They had _so much_ to discuss. Kneeling down before his quarrelsome mate, Megatron made another surrendering gesture.

Then he showed the device to Prime while keeping his servos open and non-threatening. _Not trying to upset you, see? Just trying to explain something._ He was acting perfectly reasonable, and Prime's suspicious stare eased a bit. Tapping on the headset, Megatron then reached up and tapped at his own helm and touched his mouth.

Seeing that Megatron was honoring their small truce, Prime hesitated, and then accepted the curious device.

Megatron tapped at his helm again, and mimed putting the thing over his helm. Looking over the device, Prime turned it several times in his servos, finally setting the device over his helm. He flinched then, disliking the feel of the thing. It was noisy and made his audials uncomfortable and he stood there shaking his helm in displeasure. After a moment, he pulled the headset off with a huff and made to set it aside.

But Megatron insisted. "Try it again."

With a frown, Prime obliged and tried again. This time the discomfort passed a little faster, and then the benefits of wearing the little device finally kicked in. With a gasp, Prime clutched at his helm as words rushed back into his functioning.

"Can you understand me now?' Megatron asked. The tips of his fingers twitched for excitement.

"I ... can understand," Prime murmured. It was such a shock to go from no words to words. His optics flew wide as his thoughts reorganized. All the missing words reappeared in fits and starts as the device spanned the gap between memories and provided the processing necessary to connect words to concepts. There was a noticeable delay, almost painful, and the device remained uncomfortable for it.

Right now though, it was worth the trouble. Megatron grinned, watching as a certain _knowing_ returned to Prime's eyes.

"Finally," Megatron rumbled. "It's been a long time, Prime."

...

Startled, Optimus touched the headset and leaned forward.  "We ... we need to _talk_."

There were so many questions, so much he needed to ask, so much he wanted to understand. All the whys, wherefores, what the plan was... and he hardly knew where to begin. Their previous battle was momentarily forgotten as Optimus grabbed Megatron's arm and tugged on him. This time, he let Megatron help him to his pedes, accepting the arms that wrapped snug around him and hefted him, settling him upright and close. Then they stood for a moment, together, staring at each other, hardly knowing where to begin because there was just so much.

And then Optimus tugged on Megatron, pulling him along, and for once it was the dark blur that followed _him_. Sitting together on the berth, their first meaningful words were spent catching Optimus up to speed on current events.

"You saw Soundwave," Megatron said, surprised, and Optimus related everything he'd seen of Soundwave from his time on the egg-ship. And speaking of ships…

"The... ship," Optimus murmured in satisfaction, speaking carefully for the limitations of the headset, "It will be... useful then." The knowledge pleased him greatly. They had all worked hard on it.

Megatron leaned forward earnestly. "That remains to be seen, but we are hopeful it will last long enough that we might take the Maulers by surprise. Their prison ship should be arriving at any time."

Then Megatron noticed how Prime was starting to squirm again, his waste tank uncomfortably full, and stood up. "Here," Megatron murmured, "Let's get you to the wash racks."

Without hesitation, he slipped an arm under Optimus’ legs and around his back and hefted him, and Optimus found himself being carried towards the wash racks as if he didn't have a pair of perfectly functional pedes. Megatron's easy familiarity with Optimus and his frame was on full display again, and it wasn't so much the providing of help that rankled, but the fact that Megatron didn't ask. Snap decisions were made and followed through without consultation or consideration, as Megatron had grown used to tending him as he slept. 

Once again, Optimus felt that disproportionate weight in their relationship, and acted to correct it. “Megatron,” he insisted, “Put me down.”

Startled, Megatron glanced down at him. Red optics regarded blue ones, but instead of complying, Megatron tightened his grip instead. 

"Megatron," Optimus insisted, "You know I can walk, do you not?"

"The floor is slick and you've tired yourself out with all of your useless thrashing," Megatron defended himself, "So settle down and accept a little help for once," and that last bit was an order, but Optimus refused to accept that, and continued his firm, dignified protests.

He couldn't see it, but Megatron's expression looked almost petulant now. It was much harder for him to throw his proverbial weight around when Optimus was awake enough to protest. Halfway to the washracks, his consort's quiet protests finally overwhelmed him. Reluctantly, he drew to a halt and then set Optimus back on his pedes as requested, but he didn't completely withdraw and stubbornly retained his hold on his mate.

“Among the Autobots, we have a custom,” Optimus explained as he steadied himself, waving off Megatron’s supporting hands. “We ask before touching each other.”

“Now I _know_ that’s not true,” Megatron laughed, remembering all the bear hugs.

“Barring confusion or special circumstances,” Optimus defended himself, “It is our custom, and I would appreciate it if you would adhere to our standards.”

Megatron frowned for that clear request for distance, which was something he wasn’t too keen on. “I have been helping you for weeks now. I don’t understand your problem with my presence now.”

But Megatron _did_ listen and backed off a few paces. He didn't go far though. He'd seen Optimus wincing here and there, and knew he was having contractions off and on throughout the night. Their shared responsibility would be arriving soon, and he didn't intend to miss the moment.

Outside and down the hall, the Rainmakers were being particularly noisy, almost to the point of cheering. They were getting excessively loud, and Megatron considered going out and checking on the flight mechs.

Glancing back, he saw Optimus’ back strut disappear into the wash racks, and he had to stop himself. Instinct would have him following to make sure Optimus remained safe, but he checked himself. Maybe he was being over protective. The guardian coding made that very easy, and to be fair, emptying one’s waste tank generally wasn’t a spectator sport. Optimus was well within bounds to demand some privacy…

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Megatron called out, and took a step out the door. He paused, heard Optimus rumble assent, and started down the hall.

A distraction would help cool down their little spat, and give Optimus a few moments to himself. Turning the corner, Megatron saw Skywarp and the Rainmakers all clustered around in a circle. They were chattering amongst themselves, and curious now, he joined them. He quickly realized the source of their good cheer.

Wheeljack was awake.

Well… mostly awake. He looked a little owlish, and kept blinking at the crowd of flight mechs all around him.

Skywarp was one he recognized, and so he was leaning that direction, though the bright yellow mech on the other side of him was familiar too. Everyone seemed so happy to see him standing on his two pedes, and that surprised him. They were trying to ask him questions - some of them having to do with where he wanted to sleep - but he had no idea what they were saying or why.

“Give him some space,” Megatron cut through the noise, waving the excited flight frames back. “He’s disoriented, and all this noise isn’t helping.”

Further down, at the junction between the open Courtyard and the mouth of the cave, the communications console had just finished the required scans. It burped and rattled, and then every light in the place began flashing, and a moment later the obnoxiously loud alarm klaxons went off.

Everyone jumped for the jarring noise and light, and Megatron whirled. He roared a battle call into the comms while heading back down the corridor. "Get to your stations! Follow the plan, everyone move!"

_It was time!_

Back inside their quarters, Optimus had just attended to personal business when the blaring klaxon startled him. He tried to whirl to locate the source of the noise, and like a thrown bowling ball, his momentum kept him going. 

Optimus threw out a palm to steady himself, but the slick floor had other ideas. His feet slid out from under him, and he hit the ground with a grunt, his helm glancing off the side of the crude tub. In the long history of his many helm-dings, this one was very minor, but it did send him into a quick, forced reboot.

It was a prone Prime that Megatron encountered when he entered the wash rack in a rush, “It seems the time has come for our triumphant leave of-" and then he saw Optimus laid out over the floor.

"...Optimus?”

Optimus came to moments later, serenaded back to wakefulness by blaring alarms and unhappy tank engine-surges.  At first, all he could see was red optics and purple biolighting.

Megatron was back. He was flat on the floor with a stinging helm.

For the love of Primus.. and right after he'd demanded his space and insisted he could handle walking, too. He'd just handed Megatron a fist full of ammo to use against his free agency, and he just knew his counterpart was going to use it. Even now his helm was being checked, and Optimus could feel how Megatron's servos were tracing over his body and prodding gently at the lovely little dent on his helm.

Megatron was checking him with a soft little hiss, and he sounded upset. One servo was resting protectively on his belly, with the rest of Megatron looming overhead. But that wasn’t all that Optimus noticed, laying there on the floor with a massive warlord standing over the top of him. Instead, he noticed contours and details and symmetrical lines and, and, _Primus but this floor is filthy!_

He noticed all these things in a lovely rush of optical data, because now he could _see_. The whack to his helm had jarred his optics, and now they were focusing properly. His vision was still blurry around the edges, and he knew he would be enduring a full optical re-calibration at some point, but _still_.

Looking up at his old enemy-turned-mate, he was shocked at the view clarity provided him.

Megatron was covered from helm to pedes with the deprivations he'd suffered at the tentacles of the Quintesson. Old burn marks down his back and legs chronicled his struggles against his owners, with newer injuries overlaying the old. Newer dents pocked his metal, and his colors were dim. Some of his biolighting was shorted out, and his optics were dimmer than usual. Where the dents ended, rust spots and bruising filled in, as Megatron was still recovering from his fight with Overlord and then Wreck-Gar.

Bright new weld-marks from his semi-recent surgery across his chest completed the picture.

Megatron looked like _hell_.

Optimus winced and reached up to trace the deep cut, now healing, that ran across Megatron’s chest. His touch was feather-light, to avoid causing pain. "I hadn't realized how bad things have been for you." Megatron glanced at him curiously, and then startled when Optimus actually looked him in the optic for the first time since being stranded here together.

“You are focusing properly," Megatron said with surprise. Relieved that Optimus wasn't seriously damaged, Megatron did indeed take advantage of the situation and added, “Now quit grousing and let me help you. I won't hear another word about distance when you can't even navigate level surfaces anymore.”

Optimus snorted at that, but Megatron finally stopped worrying over his little dent as it was obvious Optimus was alright. Perhaps even better then before...

"I don't need to be carried," Optimus mumbled to him, all the way to his comfy chair and while being settled within it. He was still taken aback at the sheer amount of injuries present on Megatron's frame to protest too loudly. They were rival perhaps, to his own, in number if not in depth. "And perhaps I should be carrying _you_ ," Optimus added, tracing another deep stab wound.

Now it was Megatron who snorted, and shook his helm. "There is a dent on your helm that says different."

"I'm fine," Optimus insisted, and said nothing about the steadily growing twinges across his belly. There wasn't time. Instead he shared a look with Megatron and they both listened to the klaxons.

Megatron, kneeling over Optimus, clenched his fists. "It's time," he said, and his optics flared for anxiety and excitement.

For by tonight, they would both be either free, or dead.

...

 

Megatron and Optimus arrived on the scene, the Courtyard boiling over with rushing Cybertronians. They still had a bit of time, as the _Retribution_ had only entered the sector, and was still on-route. It was part of the worry, because the rusty ship had to last a few rotations around the planetoid, directly within view of the hateful star for part of that.

Space was cold, but the old star was merciless.

Optimus had departed to stand with his Autobots at the Pavilion, and could be seen addressing them with his gestures. He'd given back the headset only reluctantly, and refused to entertain the option of having one built for him. The little Ammonite cat remained safely between his pedes.

The headset in hand, Megatron caught sight of an unhappy Prowl standing at the edge of the Pavilion and prepared himself. He hated apologizing, most especially when he was well and truly at fault. But he had to do something. He'd skirted the issue with Optimus, choosing to face that particular storm at a later date.

"I will be back," Megatron said to Thundercracker, leaving him to oversee the last of the preparations. It was a good time to corner Prowl, as the Constructicons were busy fussing with the fusing for the smart bombs, and were well and truly distracted.

Megatron didn't want an audience for this, and so he took the rescued headset back, and strode towards a conversation that was long, long overdue.

A too-short walk later, and he was standing before Prowl, facing down the tense black and white, who kept looking up at the scaffolding holding his team mates. He looked threatened, but Megatron just shook his helm.

"This is yours," Megatron said, offering the headset. Prowl scowled at him, but accepted the headset without comment, too upset for gesture-speak and too classy to stoop to the obscene gestures he was wanting to give in return. Only his pride held him back.

Megatron stood quiet as a stone, hand outstretched in offer. They held eye contact while Prowl simultaneously shot a hand out for his precious headset while at the same time leaning as far away from The Slagmaker as he possibly could. There was so much loathing in those harsh blue eyes.

Then the headset once again settled over Prowl's helm, and Megatron waited the few astro-seconds Prowl needed to sort his thoughts. Then he forged ahead, acutely aware he'd just been spotted by the Constructicons, and they were starting to stomp off the scaffolding, heading in his direction in case Prowl needed them. 

"I owe you an apology," Megatron said, forced by circumstances to speak with swiftness rather then with great eloquence. He needed to get these words out of him, preferably before the rest of the Constructicons arrived. "What I did, I thought I was doing for the greater good, to achieve true and lasting peace. I recognize now that my methods were... wrong. I regret that you have suffered at my orders."

His words were hesitant and stilted, forced past his lips. The truth was, there could be no apology for what he'd willfully inflicted on this mech. How do you apologize for such horror, for such explicit torture? He'd meant to end the war for good, without realizing that Starscream had already done the impossible, and brokered true peace between Decepticons and Autobots.

Megatron had been the one in the wrong. He'd been wrong and now, at the aft-end of space, he knew it for the truth ... and admitted it to this angry, winged Datsun.

Prowl clenched his fists, and under the blare and bustle of mechs darting here and there, they had a conversation. It was a short and painful one, full of barely contained rage from Prowl and blatant offers of alliance - if only for the greater good - laced with apologetic regret from Megatron.

"You aren't fit ... to lead a drone," Prowl finally spat, words stilted as he was still getting used to the headset's random noise again. He seemed to reject Megatron's offers of peace right out of hand. "I would never ... have tolerated such ... depravity, not even for the greater good."

Megatron stared at him, torn between wanting to appease the Autobot tactician, but also wanting to take him to task for that last statement. For the truth was, Prowl had a long, long history of taking the calculated road to victory, and glossing over the very real costs to his underlings. There was some lovely hypocrisy in that statement, and he felt that needed to be addressed, as neither of them had clean servos. This wasn't a question of crossing drawn lines; they were both so far over them that it was laughable.

This conversation was about injury; the cruelty inflicted upon Prowl at Megatron's orders.

They were both leaders, and they had both made hard decisions. It wasn't a justification for his cruelty and arrogance, no not at all, but he _was_ fit to lead - certainly at the very least a drone. He said as much with a small, depreciating smile, and then took a step forward and added, "We have both done things that we'd calculated as _needing to be done_ that weren't necessarily _right_."

"Everything I did ... all I did was right," and Prowl was not in a forgiving mood... might never be in a forgiving mood.

At that point, the Constructicons arrived, and began edging forward. It was comical how quiet they were trying to be - not threatening Glorious Leader - while making stupendous amounts of noise as they trundled over to stand around Prowl. A supportive wall of green and purple armor, they could sense Prowl's furious upset, and they were prepared to lend support if needed.

Megatron shook his head at them, his expression even, as he had no intention of harming either them or Prowl. _We all need each other_ , he almost said, though he didn't want to appear weak and so grit his denta instead. And then Prowl surprised him.

"I have been doing some... thinking," Prowl said harshly, and then he dropped his door-wings a merest fraction. "And per my ... calculations, the Quintesson are the greater threat. I refuse ... to accept an alliance with ... you, but I will agree to a cession of hostilities. ... At least until the ... greater enemy has been dealt with."

It was enough, and Megatron lunged for that little bit of concession, accepting Prowl's words with relief and even some small measure of humility. "I hope to prove myself to you, at some point. I wish that we might bury the hatchet together, and _not_ into each other's helms. I still hold hope for that."

Around them the alarms were still shrieking, and Prowl weighed out his words. He could see the truth in them, if only for the kindly way the carrying Autobots had been received and treated, when killing them would have been so, so easy.

“I still hold you ... responsible,” Prowl said at last, as he couldn't let go of his trauma so easily. "I hold you responsible for ... all of this. Every bit of misery we have endured ... during our time with the Quints. It was your ... treachery that gave them the opportunity they ... needed to overwhelm us." The words left him in the accompaniment of a deep, harsh frown and door-wings that slanted with remembered suffering.

“No one could have foreseen the invasion,” Megatron retorted, unable to keep from defending himself from that accusation. It hadn't been all him! “And as I recall, you yourself kept the truth from your Prime.”

Prowl scowled. “The inner workings of the Autobots have nothing to do with your treachery.”

“We have to work together if we are to have any hope of defeating our joint enemy,” Megatron insisted, bringing the conversation back around to the point. “All other concerns must wait.” He refused to lose the ground he'd already made for side points that wouldn't change their perilous reality. Fault was besides the issue, and pointing fingers would only benefit the Quintesson.

“For whatever it is worth,” Megatron offered, “I intend this to be the beginning of a permanent peace between our factions. If you wish, I would go over my plans with you-”

“-I do not wish it,” Prowl responded, turning to leave. “And you are correct. Your plans and your platitudes are worthless to me.”

Prowl turned away without another word, and instead, demanded an update from Long Haul on the smart bombs.

Megatron frowned, but let him go. He couldn’t blame Prowl for how he felt, and to think that they would or even could disregard the past to clasp hands in harmonious brotherhood, well, it _was_ the stuff of pipe dreams.

But Prowl had agreed to a cease-fire, for greater concerns, and within that concession lay hope for the future.

Long Haul shot him a look of relief, and Megatron nodded back. The truth was, he had faced down near-insurmountable odds before, and he decided to perceive Prowl as just another challenge to be overcome. He had ample time to prove himself to his new Autobot soldiers, even the ones he'd personally wronged.

With Optimus Prime at his side, Megatron was confident he would win them all over, eventually.

...

When everyone was assembled and the carrying mechs (including Optimus) had been sequestered away to safer locales, the call went up, and as soon as the dwarf star began to hide behind the edge of the planet, Long Haul compressed a panel. At his bidding, a massive rumble shook the penitentiary.

Several crude blasts went off, and much of the protective ceiling dropped down in a stony rain of controlled chaos.

Long Haul and Scavenger stood back, admiring their work, even as a blast of heat pelted down over them, pinging off their thick armor. Bringing down buildings was an art-form, and they were well versed in their craft. Then the debris were collected and shuffled out of the way, while the mechs chosen to attack the incoming prison ship assembled and prepared to leave.

There would be only one shot at this, and if they failed, everyone left behind would parish for the heat. With the cave ceiling shattered, once again they were on a countdown to extinction.

“Let's do this,” Onslaught said, sounding far more confident than he felt.

Megatron nodded in approval as he and the others loaded into the decrepit ship. His mood dropped several notches when he noticed their rusty ship was tagged with graffiti, a nameplate bolted to it's side that lovingly named it _‘The Fiery Death’_.

 _No doubt written by some degenerate who isn’t going,_ Megatron thought as he began to help the others prep for departure.

They were all nervous, plating slightly flared in anxiety. They all knew the metal of this vessel was beyond debilitated, and if the ship couldn’t withstand the heat from the star, they would not be able to make it back in time before the star murdered them all. But freedom meant risk, and every single one of them was frantic to escape this hellhole of a prison.

Everyone was keen to return to Cybertron, doubtlessly under attack by the Quintesson.

Onslaught was the designated pilot, and had to work to get his upper half into the tiny excuse for a cockpit. He heard the solemn _clunk_ of the rusty ship's hatches sealing and set his shoulders. It was now or never, and he was just about to stab the engine ignition when blue optics flashed behind him, wedged in the space between wall and engine.

"Click," Optimus Prime offered in greeting. His mouth was set in a grim line, and across his back was a thick piece of metal, one of Scavenger's makeshift swords. He regarded Onslaught as if they were just two old soldiers preparing to face the fight of their lives.

Onslaught nodded at him companionably, and almost broke his comm panels opening a private line to Megatron. <Optimus Prime is in the cockpit with me,> he deadpanned. <And I think he thinks he is coming with us.> He wasn't surprised to hear Megatron mumble a harsh curse in reply. _You have fun with that,_ Onslaught didn't say, though it came through loud and clear from his tone.

As predicted, Megatron didn't have any fun with the following confrontation. Optimus was unused to being left out of battles, and still seemed to think his inclusion with the raiding team was a good plan. To his credit, he kept firm hold of his dignity and did not force Megatron to carry him out of the ship.

"We'll beat some down for you," Nova Storm shouted generously from the cargo hold. Around him, the others shouted friendly greetings and waved as a nearly sulking Optimus strode past with Megatron.

"Damn skippy!" Brawl cheered, also wedged into the cargo hold. "I still owe you one for the Nucleon, Prime! You want your souvenir body parts heads or tails?"

"I will make this up to you," Megatron promised into a wildly disappointed blue audial, "But you know very well that coming with us now is impossible," and he shook his helm as he could feel another contraction was spreading across Optimus' belly. He could feel Optimus' discomfort radiating from his electromagnetic fields.

Once Prime was safely disembarked, and Megatron back aboard, Onslaught started the ship's engine.

With a harrowing series of coughs and rattles, the rusty old ruin dragged itself up and into the sky, right as the dwarf star fully disappeared behind the horizon. It was the shortest of reprieves. As soon as they left the shadow of the mountain - and the decrepit ship began its climb up into the higher reaches - the pitiless star remnant came back into view.

Reaching out with hot and greedy fingers, the star began to overheat the plating of the _Fiery Death_ and the old ship began to burn.

Outside the cockpit, Megatron clung to the wall, wishing for the umpteenth time that the cockpit was large enough to hold two fully plated Cybertronians. Currently Megatron was wedged into the space between the cockpit and the cargo hold, and wasn’t feeling charitable enough to call it a corridor. His bulk only barely fit, and it was one hell of a bumpy ride.

“Progress, Onslaught?”

He'd clashed with Onslaught as both wanted to be in the cockpit, but Megatron deferred to Onslaught’s superior piloting skills and left the Combaticon to his task. The mech’s large frame only half fit in the tiny cockpit while the rest of his bulk stuck out in the corridor, blocking all view.

“Only a few more astro-seconds until we breach, sir!” Onslaught yelled over his shoulder, barely heard over the rattling even though Megatron was standing right behind him.

As they breached the upper atmosphere the ship rattled and shook around them, complaining bitterly for being forced from its grave to fly one last time. Outside, the hull plating was melting and coming off in burning strips, and only Scavenger’s cleverly placed reinforcements kept the old ship from falling to pieces straight away.

In the cargo hold, everyone scrabbled and struggled to stay upright, some mechs even lying in piles on the floor. “Slag me,” Thrust groaned while clinging to Scavenger, who was clinging to Long Haul. “I'm going to die. I'm going to die in this rusting scrap-pile of a ship. Slag me!”

“Hey Onslaught,” Brawl yelled over the rattling and clatter, “Did you hear about the pilot who took a _crash course_ in–”

“You shut your fraggin’ intakes, Brawl!” Onslaught roared from the cockpit. "Not now! Just ... please Primus, not now!"

 _That mech needs a vacation,_ Megatron thought. _Hedonia sounds nice ..._ and then he shook his helm, clearing his mind, which was dredging up pleasanter thoughts to help counter how desperately anxious he was feeling. The ship wasn't holding up as well as they had hoped, and he was forced to spread his heavy pedes to stay upright in the corridor. Anxiety mounting, he called out for another update.

“Almost there!” Onslaught yelled.

But as Megatron watched the atmosphere rushing by out a small porthole, he saw a massive section of the outer hull peel off, and his plating flared in alarm. _This isn't going to work,_ he realized. _Scavenger’s modifications won’t hold out for long enough… this ship is too debilitated._

The _Fiery Death_ was already falling apart. There was no way that this ship would be able to hold out against the dwarf star while they waited for the prison ship to arrive. They watched in helpless alarm over the course of the next few breems as the deeper levels of the ship's plating began to sear and melt off the hull.

Megatron frowned, and carefully addressed his soldiers as he realized that they were in for a great deal of difficulty shortly. Calling attention over internal comms, he began to give the bad news, <There is a change of plans->

“He means we are all gonna die!” Brawl bellowed cheerfully and somebody shoved him, but they were all too cramped for Brawl to figure out who.

<Silence!> Megatron roared over internal comms, and everyone with a functioning processor shut the slag up. <There is a change in plans,> Megatron repeated, sounding as calm and assured as ever. <Long Haul, you and the others will eject from the cargo bay, and we will all head back down to the planet surface. We will try to get this wreck back into the ground in one piece, and land it as close to the prison as possible. We can use it to help cover the penitentiary’s ceiling _–_ >

Megatron was interrupted by a rush of static in internal comms and a _ping!_ from an emergency connection, and then the last mech they ever expected joined their comm line.

<This is Soundwave requesting response from any surviving Cybertronians,> and Soundwave's blessed monotone vocalizer rumbled through the whole of internal comms. Never in the history of the Decepticons had so many mechs cheered the sound of his voice.

"You got a fragging great sense of timing, mech!" Thrust yelled, though of course Soundwave couldn’t hear him.

<Soundwave!> Megatron shouted over the roar of the burning _Fiery Death_ , <Can you read me? We require your immediate assistance!>

It was the understatement of the year, and then Soundwave’s reassuring monotone rumbled back a life-affirming answer. <Assistance is on route. My shuttle is positioned over your vessel. Lord Megatron. I am pleased you remain functional.>

<For the moment,> Megatron said while trying not to sound as relieved as he felt, though reunions would have to wait. <This ship is coming apart at the seams! There are ten of us, do you have enough room in your shuttle?>

Soundwave replied in the affirmative, though he hesitated and added something to his reply that sounded like ‘with creativity’. That was fine, everyone was perfectly okay with creativity so long as horrible, flaming death was held at bay.

<How the _frag_ did you find us? > Skywarp yelled from the cargo hold.

Megatron snapped back at him. <Not now! Keep the comm lines clear of idle chatter!>

<Bring your shuttle alongside the cargo bay,> Megatron ordered as Onslaught moved to start organizing the evacuation.

Meanwhile the _Fiery Death_ was busy falling to pieces, and now even the back end had peeled away, the hole widening alarmingly, but also giving view of several grappling tow cables latching on.

Soundwave's shuttle was directly overhead, only a little larger than the old freighter, and with a burst of his shuttle's engines, the old freighter was hefted the last little ways into high orbit. The fires went out and the cold crept in, offset by the dreadful heat from every surface the old star touched.

Well aware they were still in danger, Megatron gave in to his need to be in control. He hauled Onslaught out of the way and took his place in the cockpit. He winced as the internal spaces of the ship began to heat to very uncomfortable levels. He frantically beat his palm against the barely functioning control panel, forcing the ship to turn and offer as little of itself to the touch of the star as possible.

It was messy undertaking, but both ships were finally aligned, and the Cybertronians managed to pack themselves into Soundwave’s small shuttle, climbing through perilous hatches and launching themselves through open space to reach Soundwave's shuttle-hatch.

Once safely aboard Soundwave's ship, they watched as the _Fiery Death_ floated away. As they stood catching their ventilations, they could see most of the internals of the ship now, still melting and burning. It was a bittersweet moment as with some help, the old ship had served them well. Now they watched as it rolled in slow circles, trapped in a hot orbital rotation instead of the cold ground; a tomb with a view.

"Soundwave," Megatron greeted his old friend, and it was all he needed to say. He clapped Soundwave on his shoulder with spark-felt warmth. He only _barely_ kept from outright hugging the blue spy in sheer relief. Soundwave sensed his gratitude all the same, and his visor flashed.

Directly underfoot, Bob had just taken a good sniff of the newcomer and started squealing at the top of his vocalizer, and Megatron startled for the sharp bursts of whining. Soundwave winced, realizing that Bob was smelling tiny molecule-sized hints of Sunstreaker on Lord Megatron, and from the creature’s reaction, he knew his days of Bob-ownership were nearing an end.

_Unfortunate._

The little Insecticon runt had proven to be most endearing, though Ravage would argue that point to the smelter. Megatron fell more on Ravage’s point of view and frowned down at the runt pawing at his pedes, trying to get more scent molecules of his dearly beloved master. Soundwave called Bob back to him, pleased when the odd-looking creature immediately obeyed.

Such a good Bob!

Then Megatron shook his helm, putting the creature out of mind, and asked Soundwave to tell him everything. "What news of Cybertron? Has anyone else escaped from the Quintesson?"

Onslaught clasped a servo on Brawl's shoulder and cut in, "Any news of Blast Off?"

"Situation, complicated," Soundwave began, and the last survivors of Uytis clustered all around him, desperate for news of friends, family, and the battle to save Cybertron.

After answering all of their more pressing questions, Soundwave confirmed he had been monitoring communication lines when the Galactic Council had broadcasted their miserable judgment regarding the Cybertronian race.

“Ruling challenged immediately by Ultra Magnus,” Soundwave reported, “Acting as Chief Justice as Tyrest has disappeared, presumed still a captive of the Quintesson. Ruling has been overturned, but the Galactic Council refused to send any vessels to recover Cybertronian prisoners, and Maulers refused to release Cybertronians from their incarceration.”

The wheels of organic justice move very slowly, and so Soundwave had set out to gather up the surviving Cybertronians himself. "I am far from ungrateful,” Megatron said after Soundwave finished, “But where you unaware how many of us were imprisoned here? This shuttle is far too small to ferry all of us, even in root modes and stacked atop each other.”

"I volunteer for the stacking thing!" Thrust announced. Anything was better than returning to the planet below, and there were grunts of agreement all around.

“Affirmative,” Soundwave said, apologetically. “Due to high traffic and aggressive Quintesson patrols, a larger ship couldn’t be located within acceptable time frame. This shuttle was deemed large enough to recover mechs of note (in other words, members of high command and Megatron himself) although shuttle engine is behaving erratically; I arrived as quickly as possible.”

“We will have the Constructicons look it over,” Megatron assured him. “I refuse to leave anyone behind, and fortunately I know of a way that we may all leave this wretched hole together.”

“Prison ship incoming for another prisoner drop,” Soundwave intoned, having already guessed Megatron’s intentions. The ship was mere joors away, heading towards them entirely unawares.

“Indeed,” Megatron grinned at Soundwave, and barely quashed another urge to clap Soundwave on his shoulder again. Primus, but he'd missed this mech terribly, and Soundwave’s visor flashed as the telepath sensed his pleasure as Megatron added, “and you will help us take the prison ship. I see no reason to extend them any courtesy.”

He was still deeply peeved over the Galactic Council’s pathetic trial and he wasn't surprised to hear that their conviction had been overturned. The ruling was a complete sham, even by questionable organic standards.

“Gather and listen!” Megatron’s vocalizer boomed out over the shuttle, and his soldiers pressed in close for their orders.

...

Once they detected incoming warp engines, Soundwave shut down the small shuttle completely. Then he extended his small personal energy deflector over the others to help mask their energy signatures. Around him, Megatron and his soldiers prepared themselves for the fight ahead.

Not long after, the _Retribution_ emerged from warp and appeared above the burning planet as the star peaked from above. The prison ship was right on time, and next came the most dangerous period of the rescue.

Megatron knew the prison ship crew suspected something was amiss. They were scanning the burnt remains of the aptly named _Fiery Death_ and clearly suspected some sort of attempted prison break. But they had no true understanding of the severity of their situation. They had just enough sense - the same amount that Primus gave gravel - to raise their shields, but they did not immediately flee, which was a dreadful mistake.

Megatron manually opened the shuttle’s outer hatch and the thin atmosphere was instantly sucked from the tiny ship. Ventilation was now impossible, which while making things difficult for the Cybertronians, was not lethal. But now they were on a timer, as eventually their systems would shut down for the cold of space, or the heat of the star, whichever claimed them first.

They didn't intend to wait that long.

Carefully filing out from the shuttle, Megatron grabbed a hold of the few mechs that would have difficulty navigating a zero gravity environment and launched himself towards the prison ship.

The Constructicons and the Combaticons served as the primary shock troops for the mission, and they came up the rear. Onslaught and Long Haul stayed back, keeping an optic on everyone, making sure no one was lost to open space.

Meanwhile, Megatron and the other Cybertronians reached the hull of _Retribution,_ and Megatron used his small blaster to help soften up the hull. His efforts started a hole in the plating, with the hope that the smaller weapon wouldn't be detected by the aliens inside the enemy ship. Lacking his fusion cannon or rail gun, he made due with a smaller hand-held blaster from Soundwave.

There was a small energy flash as each mech took hold of the prison ship itself; slipping through the energy shields with ease.

The ship's shields were meant to reflect heavy weapons fire, and were not equipped to repel murderous Cybertronians. At Megatron's orders, Hook pushed forward and began to use his welder to cut through the hull of the ship.

It was slow work and their plating alternatively ached from the cold of deep space, and burned from the touch of the star. Fortunately, the attacking Cybertronians had maneuvered themselves so that the prison ship was between them and the star, and that gave them a bit of time, just enough, to cut their way through.

Moving in, Long Haul oversaw the cutting, his hand resting on Hook's shoulder in an unspoken plea.

_Hurry!_

...

Down below, the Cybertronians left behind were standing in small, anxious groups.

The waiting was dreadful, as radio silence was necessary to avoid alerting the _Retribution_ that burning, maiming death was on the way. The lack of updates had everyone on edge, and speculation was the order of the day.

“Come on,” Swindle encouraged the slow-moving Autobots to follow him as he lead them to the main courtyard. His limp was almost gone, and his trade-marked grin was firmly in place. The Autobots were being either helped or carried by Pipes and Bluestreak.

Bluestreak had approached Optimus first, and was overjoyed when his shy friendly overtures of "It's so good to see you survived, Prime, sir" was answered by a firm bear hug (Optimus could tell Bluestreak had had a hell of an awful time, and needed it). Now Blue and Pipes were helping carry the still-sleeping Jazz and Percy as their respective guardians were currently clinging, crab-like, to the _Retribution's_ hull in mid-orbit.

“We are busting out of this slaghole!” Swindle said cheerfully, having every faith in his team mates. Onslaught's ginormous ball bearings would see them through, and Swindle had said as much to any mech that dared worry in his direction.

Optimus, too, was following behind Swindle.

His contractions were coming in slow waves now, helped along by his fall. He was distracting himself by supporting Wheeljack, who was awake now but still woozy. Another twinge hit, and he realized it really was time, but thankfully he would have many joors yet before he would need to find a hiding place. The carrier coding was thrumming hard within him now, urging him back to the safety of his mate and nest, but he shook those worries off. He'd known better then to mention them to Megatron, not wanting to distract him from his rescue mission.

Wheeljack made a soft noise of surprise, and pointed towards the ceiling.

Peering upward, Optimus was startled to see that the ceiling had been collapsed. The last time he'd been out here, the settling dust clouds had obscured his view, and he hadn't realized the extent of the damage to the ceiling.  Unimaginably hot air was broiling down from above, only countered by the struggling air conditioning unit. The heat would only get worse when the dwarf star began to climb the horizon for the day-cycle, which would be soon.

_No wonder it’s so hot again. They had to destroy the ceiling to get the ship outside fast enough for launch._

_Did they succeed?_

He had to hope they did, because everyone here was as good as deactivated in a few hours. At his pedes, the small cat was pressing against him, looking nervous. The Ammonite understood as well as he did how much was riding on Megatron's shoulders.

Curious for an update - unaware there was none to be had - Optimus tried to gesture at Swindle. Unfortunately the jeep didn’t understand charades, and Optimus finally decided to accept his cheerfulness as a good sign and gave up.

Instead, Optimus helped Wheeljack sit down and then busied himself helping Ratchet support and cover Jazz's little bitlet with a thermal blanket. It wasn't lost on him that the youngster's plating was actually better than their own bare frames … but that wasn't the point.

Stroking over the little one's black and white wings, Optimus felt another twinge, and felt a mix of anxiety and anticipation wind through him. Ratchet glanced at him curiously, but he didn't feel like enduring a long gesture-conversation and the hullabaloo of medical attention he would receive the instant Ratchet realized what was up.

Then the murderous dwarf star began to crest over the shattered ceiling of the prison, and Optimus turned his gaze upward, his optical components whirring as they focused on the sky above.

The rusty ship was long out of sight, and only a tiny patch of sky could be seen overhead, even with the ceiling collapsed. He searched the sky with his mostly-restored optics, however fruitless, knowing that the rusty ship held their only hope of escape. He’d have gone himself if they would have let him.

Now he could only hope Megatron was up to the task.

...

Hook muttered through his internal comms, <Almost through,> and everyone tensed. Everyone was on the same channel, all waiting as Hook busily cut his way through the Retribution’s hull.

Megatron turned back to the others clinging to the hull.

As the hull plating finally gave way, they moved in a forceful mass. They'd done this a thousand, thousand times before, to each other. Decepticon and Autobot alike had stormed any number of warships in countless encounters, but this time it was different. This time, Autobot and Decepticon fought together as brothers, as Megatron, the Combaticons, the Constructicons, and Snarl forced their way into the _Retribution_.

Soundwave followed behind, and unleashed his cassettes. He had his own task, and quickly located and removed a communication panel to gain access to the Retribution's systems, to jam their defensive systems. At his pedes, Bob was an impeccable guard dog, but after a few soft whines, Soundwave leaned down and smiled behind his visor.

"Bob," he intoned. "Sic'em." With a squeak of sheer delight and a scrabble of grubby feets, Bob tore down after the others, joining the assault.

Breaking into a central corridor, Megatron and the rest of his soldiers found the dark depths empty of enemies, but not for long. Charging down the corridor towards the deeper areas of the ship, they turned a corner only to face down blaring ship-wide alarms and a waiting squad of prison guards, alerted to their presence by the penetration of their ship’s hull.

The Constructicons immediately charged forward with Megatron right behind them.

Their thick armor served them well, and they endured multiple blasts from the prison guards with little damage. Their armor withstood the initial barrage and they shattered the enemy lines. Onslaught, Brawl, and Vortex hit the prison guards assembled like a freight train, making good use of the living cover. They shot energy blasts from internal weapons - the energon from Prime the gift that kept on giving - and they sent the guards to their deaths.

The rest of the Cybertronians were right behind them and helped shatter the lines of guards. The skirmish was over quickly, as the last of the guards found themselves trapped between the veteran Decepticon front-liners and the combiner teams. Their deaths were swift thanks in no small part to Prime's energy stash and their access to enough energy to power internal weaponry.

There was an excellent reason so many aliens feared Cybertronians as a species. "Good work," Megatron shouted, "Now fan out into your groups as ordered." Following Onslaught's stratagems, the various teams darted down separate corridors, engaging the guards in running fire-fights.

After a few breems of intense back and forth, Long Haul's team and Megatron's group met back up again in decorated corridor, the glyphs on the wall suggesting they were nearing the ship's more critical areas. The bridge wasn't far away.

Long Haul crushed a Mauler’s head beneath his feet, and looked around. “The star is rising and the others don’t have much more time,” he said to Megatron, thinking of Prowl and Mixmaster still trapped on the planetoid's surface. “We need to hurry.”

“This way,” Megatron said as he charged down the corridor, “most likely this passage will lead to their command deck.”

His haunch was correct, and before long they were fighting their way to the main bridge. Another few waves of energy fire and Megatron was confronting the Mauler's captain head on. The encounter went as well as could be expected, as though the creature was a hulking thing, it was organic, and organics didn't fair so well against harsh Cybertronian metal.

On the vid screen, Captain K'gard of _The Benign Intervention_ had just responded to the _Retribution's_ frantic distress call, and his scowling face was in attendance for the last of the fighting. Currently patrolling Galactic Council space, Captain K'gard was unable to help for the unspeakably vast distances between the two ships.

A few well-placed punches and it was obvious that there would be no help for the Mauler captain now. Then the screen went dark as the Mauler captain's fleshy body smashed into it, to Megatron's immense approval.

“Cybertronians,” the ornately dressed Mauler captain gasped, now dangling from Megatron's harsh servos. “Why did it have to be Cybertr–”

“My guess?” Megatron chortled as he tightened his grip on the doomed organic's neck, “Because you dumped us here.” Over the next few astro-seconds, Megatron took enormous pleasure in escorting the green-skinned creature - and its excessive number of tassels - to the next life.

...

There was a thunderous shout across the penitentiary, a great and joyous sound.

Megatron's rich vocalizer had burbled out of the pitiful communications console, announcing their successful claiming of the _Retribution_. Ordering everyone into the Courtyard for mass transportation, it didn't take long.

There was a familiar vibration of mass teleportation, and moments later the remaining Cybertronians were transported aboard the prison ship. Optimus’ beleaguered frame materialized on the transportation pad. Simultaneously, the wretched prisoners that had been standing there found themselves marooned on the planet’s surface by the pitiless Cybertronians.

Arriving in the shattered ruins of the penitentiary, the newest group of alien prisoners were without the protection of the energy shield nor the heavy roof, and rapidly faced their disastrous fates as the broiling face of the dwarf star peered down upon them.

On board their newly commandeered ship, the Cybertronians responsible wasted no tears for the loss … Swindle merely winked at Brawl (stationed at the control panel) as he stepped off the pad.

Yet another thing Megatron wouldn't be mentioning to Optimus Prime any time soon.

A massive amount of anxiety eased once Optimus and his Autobots re-materialized on the transporter pad with the rest of the Decepticons, and they were gently coaxed off the transport pad and settled down to rest on soft, heavy tarps.

 _Wump-wump-wump-wump_ came the sound of charging pedes as Sunstreaker barreled off the teleporter pad, blaster in hand, passing the rest of the disembarking Cybertronians like they were standing still. Front-lining was his life and passion, and being forced to remain behind had upset him. Now he was intent on joining what was left of the fighting and charged away.

Looming protectively over his Autobots, Optimus watched with interest as Sunstreaker charged past, heading down the corridor towards distant sounds of blaster fire. At Optimus' side, Sideswipe clicked happily at the sight of his triumphant brother, a trill of greeting with undertones of _wish I could come with you._

Sunstreaker yelled something that almost sounded _cheerful_ over his shoulder, though he kept running. He was content to leave his brother in the protective shadow of the Autobot leader for once. The sporadic fighting was still ongoing, but as the tiny pockets of resistance were cornered by the combined efforts of the Combaticons and Constructicons, victory was merely a matter of time.

Other mechs were not so keen on fighting.

"Finally! Freedom and even better, we get to live in clean spaces again!" Pipes shouted as he stepped off the transporter pad with a chattering Bluestreak and two peevish Dynobots right behind him. Most of the Dynobots had been too large to fit inside the cargo hold, at least in any reasonable way. Along with Sunstreaker, Sludge and Slag were miffed to have been left out of the fighting.

"Him Snarl say stay with him Pipes and Blue," the ever-faithful Sludge reminded his brother when Slag looked as if he might barrel off after Sunstreaker.

Slag sniffed and swished his tail, though he was careful not to unseat Bluestreak, who was resting across his shoulders. "Slag want fight too."

"-plenty of fighting left to go," Bluestreak said as he leaned over to assure his new buddy, "after all, we still have to make our way out of Mauler space, and you can bet they will be sending ships after us as soon as they realize what's happened to their prison ship. Remember, they probably have all sorts of rules and regulations and checks to keep tabs on this ship, so, really, it's just a matter of time, and that's not to mention the Galactic Council, because we have to cross their space next, and their stupid flag ship is always a bother, and you know how much they hate us, so you can bet they will be showing up next, though now we are free of the Quint collars and other devices so we can actually fight them this time, and err, no, I never saw the flag ship myself, but I heard Swindle and Brawl talking about how the Galactic Council ruined your first escape attempt thanks to the collars, but anyway as I was saying, there is plenty of opportunity for fighting-"

Slag shuffled his still achy-sore pedes and grumbled a little, but it was obvious he was happy for the company, wordy or otherwise.

Next to them, Mixmaster and Prowl stepped off the transporter pad together, and Prowl walked over to stand next to Optimus. The two old friends nodded respectfully at each other while Mixmaster hurried off to rejoin the rest of the Constructicons. Stuck babysitting Prowl (though he'd volunteered) he was still upset to be missing all the happy fun times. Now he was all but praying his brothers had left some of the organics alive for him to clobber. Organics squished so... delightfully. Not to mention made wonderful regents for all kinds of caustic substances...

The Junkions were the next to step off the transporter pad. They looked frighteningly out of place in the clean and barren reaches of the Mauler ship. As a group, they took one look at the horrifying lack of trash - not so much as a scrap of rusted anything anywhere - and they eyed each other.

"That boy ain't right," one of them said to his junk-pile companion, and they all nodded. Hanging back, they began muttering amongst themselves all sneaky-like, alternating between eyeing the teleporter and glaring at the clean spaces.

Standing off to the side with his Autobots, Optimus frowned after Sunstreaker's swiftly vanishing back plates, tempted to hunt down a blaster and follow, though another twinge across his middle had him thinking twice.

Old habits die hard, after all.

Swindle noticed and waved his servos at the carrying mechs in placating gestures while chattering at them in Cybertronian. His soothing and cheerful tones filled the room while they waited. Although Optimus had his suspicions as to the fates of the guards and prisoners, all attempts to ask just earned him confused looks. He would have gone to investigate if he was in any condition for it, but didn’t dare to leave his mechs unguarded.

Thus Optimus was unaware of the deaths, kept sequestered away with his Autobots at the original transportation point while the armored Cybertronians finished off the last of the retreating prison guards.

Megatron arrived not long after, greeting him with triumphant tones. Holding out his servo (carefully wiped clean of organic internal fluids) he gathered and coaxed Optimus to follow him through the ship, even as the last of the fighting neared an end.

…

Smashing one of the last of the Mauler guards into a wall, Sunstreaker may or may not have been smiling. Either way, he was thoroughly enjoying his brutal revenge. There were only a few guards left, but it was enough for a decent few fights, and right now, Sunny couldn't be happier. These _things_ had dumped him on Uytis to die, and he showed them no mercy.

 _Have to find a decent room for 'Sides and me,_ he thought as he straightened up. _One with a working shower and a mirror. Hopefully these stupid things have some paint and wax in storage..._

His musing was interrupted by a ship-wide shimmer, and he froze in horror.

The shimmer ended, and all around them, the garbage drifts of Uytis rolled and rushed and settled. No one had paid the Junkions any heed, and the Junkion techie had figured out the teleporter controls.

Down the hall, Pipes could be heard throwing a screaming tantrum while the Dynobots were already swishing around and making new garbage-nests. Heedless of the upset, the happy Junkions were dancing and singing in the corridors, grabbing armfuls of glorious, glorious trash and throwing them up into the air.

With a groan, Sunny turned his back and paused to wiped his servos clean on a rag. He checked over his plating, pleased to see only minor scratches, easy to buff out. Best of all, he'd only taken a few shots, and thankfully his armature had held. It meant he wouldn't have to submit himself to Hook for repairs, always a good thing. All in all, this had been a most successful mission, and now Sunstreaker was definitely feeling cheerful, perhaps for the first time since this entire mess had begun.

Then a burst of sound had him whirling, dropping into an instinctive battle stance. It was a terrible kind of scream, emitted by a simple-minded creature feeling too much emotion all at once. An emotion explosion, as it were.

“Bob?” Sunstreaker whispered.

He couldn't believe his audials ... because Bob was _dead_ , and then his optics confirmed his audials as a small insecticon runt took the corner like a bug possessed and, screaming, barreled into his beloved master. Optics cycled to their widest setting, a shocked Sunstreaker was bowled off his pedes by several tons of wriggling, licky, antenne-twitching and squealing Bob.

Yellow pedes left the ground for the force of the hit, and Sunny didn't even notice the scrip-scrape of his back plating scratching as he was sent sliding over the floor. A thick tongue descended upon him, and he was rocked back and forth on the floor for the sheer amounts of wiggling.

“I missed you too,” Sunstreaker gasped out between all the licking, all but drowning in Bob-drool. It was a most welcome greeting. "I thought you were dead, Bob."

No, Bob assured his master, with little screams only interrupted by furious licking, Bob was not dead. Bob was very, very not dead, and to prove it, have a damned good licking. Lick-scrreet!-lick-scrreet!-lick-scrreet! and Bob was putting his massive, multi-segmented tongue to very good use.

Down the hall and to the right, Soundwave slumped over a little, just a little, and sat down on a nearby security station chair. He was still busy overriding the ship’s security systems level by level, assailing the ship from the digital realm.

He'd heard the shuffling patter of fleeing feet, and had looked over his shoulder just as Bob disappeared from sight. From the sounds of the joyous reunion going on not too far from his position, he knew that Bob had fled his side for the last time.

Soundwave had known it was coming, but now the moment was upon him, and the sense of loss was worse then he thought.

At his pedes, Ravage smothered his deep happiness, and tilted his helm as he regarded his drooping carrier. Then, after careful consideration, Ravage leapt up and balanced carefully on the chair's arm, arching his back in the manner of happy felines everywhere. One more pause, and Ravage carefully settled himself into Soundwave's lap, for the first time, ever.

The things Ravage did for family …

Touched, Soundwave patted his oldest cassette and returned to task.

…

“Come with me, Optimus,” and Megatron gently pulled his consort along behind him, moving slowly while Prime carefully placed his pedes so to remain balanced as he followed. He could tell Optimus wasn't feeling safe in these new surroundings, and still wasn't fully sure about their situation. His carrier coding was concerned for the complete change of environment, but it helped enormously that Megatron and his comforting scent was present.

“Set course for Cybertron,” Megatron ordered as Onslaught and Brawl started looking over the ship’s controls. Thundercracker poked at what appeared to be navigation, and irritably shoved Thrust away from him.

“We going **home** , mechs!” Skywarp’s exuberant cry echoed down the corridors to ragged, joyful cheers.

Brawl snorted, “You mechs are,” and glanced over at Onslaught for confirmation.

“Soundwave has already located the breeding colony the Quints are keeping Blast Off at,” Onslaught said as he gestured the others follow him into a secluded alcove for a quick briefing. They crowded around him, eager. Swindle leaned against Brawl, and watched Onslaught.

“Megatron has authorized us the use of one of the _Retribution's_ emergency dart-ships, which shouldn't stick out too badly in this region. That, and he's given us a barrel of Nucleon to hurry us on our way. It will be a tight fit, but the dart-ship will get us there. I'm still working out the details, but the basic idea is, we bust in for Blast Off, smash the place, and then get the frag out."

Swindle nodded, “Sounds tight.”

“We leave,” Onslaught said, “as soon as you fraggers are ready. I’ll go over the mission details later, still working out some kinks.”

“Our mission,” Vortex said with a conspirator's tones, “if you chose to accept it-”

Brawl laughed for the human reference, and punched his fists together with a clang. “What are we waitin' for? Let’s do this.”

…

Megatron maneuvered Optimus Prime towards the plush-looking command chair. 

Gesturing for him to take a seat, Megatron saw him wince again, clearly suffering through another contraction. He reached out to stroke at Optimus' belly, eager to meet the unborn, only to back off when Optimus threatened to lift a pede against him again. The movement was muted for the fact he was still standing, but Megatron got the hint all the same.

With a soft chuckle, Megatron lifted his servos in surrender. “Oh, settle down. We are saved, and on our way home! Now would be a time for celebration, if we didn't didn't have so many tasks left to complete.”

Optimus clearly didn’t understand the words, but the tone was encouraging and getting off his pedes was a wonderful idea. He carefully settled down with a relieved sigh as the weight came off his unprotected struts.

Rubbing at himself, Prime frowned down at the oversized bulge in his abdominals. Beyond the twinging pains, it was so much more _pronounced_ when he was sitting, but once again, Megatron pretended not to notice. “Once we get to Cybertron we will have access to a real medical bay,” he promised, squeezing Optimus' servo gently, a touch that was never rejected. “Then we will get you back to yourself.”

“Here,” Megatron touched Optimus’ helm and then dropped his servos to Optimus’ shoulder, tapping at the plating latch-connections there, “and here.”

Optimus understood what he was saying for the touches, and relaxed fully, dropping his helm as he settled down. Megatron smiled faintly as he returned his attention to the control panel on the chair’s armrest while Optimus threatened to ease off into a light doze.

"Mhm," Megatron rumbled, watching as Optimus' ventilations began to even out. "I could use a good recharge cycle myself. Once we are safely underway, how about we go and see what sort of accommodations the captain of this ship set aside for himself?"

Optimus didn't answer as he was already drowsing.

"Forget recharge," Skywarp mumbled as he walked past to join his trine mate, "And sign me up for a fragging vacation." Across his back, Percy was back in his harness, nestled safely between dark wings, and was starting to show signs of stirring. It wouldn't be long before all of the Autobots would be waking from their forced sleep.

Glancing up as the prison ship began to accelerate; Megatron was pleased to see that Thundercracker had figured out the controls. The star-field outside began to move, and then Thundercracker hit another key, and the ship's engines rumbled, a deep and reassuring sound.

They all watched as the terrible visage of the dwarf star began to fade, and it wasn't hard to imagine the ripples and flares of it's face as seething; enraged that they had succeeded to escape.

"We made it," Thundercracker said to Skywarp, who was standing at his back, "I can't believe we made it ... I thought we might die on that stupid planet. We still have so much to deal with, but, and as corny as this sounds, right now the future feels ... _bright_."

It _was_ corny, and Skywarp grinned as Thundercracker's writing face was back; he'd just figured out how he wanted to end his story. Skywarp just shrugged and went back to making obscene wing-gestures at the swiftly vanishing star.

Dropping his servo onto Optimus' shoulder, Megatron straightened and smiled.

The future looked bright, indeed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and only the epilogue left! 
> 
> Definitely planning a sequel, so some things will be left unresolved so I have enough conflict to play with in the next installment, in a few months. 
> 
> Tentatively titled 'Megatron, Optimus, and infant journey to the center of Cybertron to save the core.'  
> ...Not really, but you get the picture. :D


	25. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a happy ending as promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note; I had to delete and then upload this chapter again because for some reason it wasn't showing as updated, at least not on my screen. I don't know if that means people get emails again, and if you did, I apologize. Sorry for any confusion!

The _Retribution_ traveled swiftly through Mauler space, slicing through the deep darkness.

Barely an hour had passed after their escape from the depths of Uytis and they were making excellent time. They quickly left that sector behind, and not so much as a single communique or inquiry disrupted them. It wasn't long before their ship plowed into the standard shipping lanes, all without a complaint from anyone, and now its powerful engines hurried them on their way home.

It helped that the distinctive and hulking ship was a normal sight in that region of space. It was always traveling between ports to collect prisoners, and other then docking here and there, the ship generally kept to itself. No one questioned its movements and so the _Retribution_ wasn't attracting much attention. The hope was that by the time anyone important in the Maulers' hierarchy realized what had happened, it would be too late.

Still, circuits were on edge for the tension.

Everyone shared a sense of held breath, and mechs kept themselves busy as a distraction. They could expect to remain on board for some time yet, as Megatron and the rest of command carefully navigated the proverbial mind field that was Mauler space. As such, the mundane, everyday needs of living things became a priority and so the survivors scurried about, making themselves at home, claiming private spaces for themselves and exploring the ship.

Even for their excitement, their exploration remained cautious. To their optics, the ship's internal spaces were as welcoming and picturesque as the outer hull ... which is to say, not at all.

 It didn't help that what the Retribution lacked in grace, it failed  equally  in style.  The  overall  color of the ship was a dark slate gray, and it was hulking and overbearing throughout the whole of its interior.  The only part pleasing to the optics was the etched and glowing direction markers, but that soft glow of decoration was offset and diminished by the utilitarian, orange-ish hue of the overhead lights. The corridors and passageways felt too wide, and yet at the same time, too short ... but after the horror that was Uytis, it was love at first sight.

Megatron noted it's construction as "sturdy" (while Optimus snoozed through the entire conversation).

Thundercracker couldn't stop smiling for the joy of clean, cool air over his wings. There wasn't a rust spot to  be found  anywhere on the command deck, and he  was thrilled  for it. His easy laughter and good cheer passed along to his Armada, who strode about with high-set wings.

In the ship's crew quarters, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had rediscovered their love of sharing cool showers. Sunny had found the mother lode; a goodly supply of fresh oil polish and various cleansers.  There were even microfiber cleaning cloths for polishing each other (and Ion Storm) into mirror shines. Sunstreaker was over the moon, and even Ion Storm was feeling  amazingly  pretty.  That is, until they noticed Sideswipe, who was staring at himself in the mirror with an unreadable expression.  That prompted a full-frame cuddle from Ion Storm and a suggestion from Sunstreaker to go exploring.

Down in the lower levels, the Dynobots had appreciated how thick and stable the walls and floors were. The ship's hulking metal was more than adequate to stand up to the pounding of heavy frames and rough play. Meanwhile,  Pipes (carrying a shovel for protection against the dreck) and Bluestreak were urging their massive buddies to hurry, for they had laid claim to a cargo hold and were beyond delighted for true privacy again. 

The Constructicons could  be seen  cooing at the walls while carrying various stacks of tools and materials to repair the damaged hull and corridors. Hook even praised the straight-edged welding used to merge the various hull-plating together.

Waddling amidst them, Prowl nodded agreement, though it was obvious he wasn't  really  listening to them.  Their assessments of building materials, weld-line procedures, and chemical patch mixes went right over his helm. Still, he was always with them now, always in the dead center of their sprawling group.

His new team included him in their chatter whether he understood them or not.  It was a novel experience for Prowl, as their spark-deep pleasure in his company was something he was rather unaccustomed to. But their responses were always genuine, and he found the sheer volume of support amazing.  His growing confidence drowned his anxiety, especially after his talk with Megatron, and his door wings remained at a peaceable slant.

Best of all, Soundwave had given him a full report on the war effort. It was better labeled an underground resistance for their overall lack of soldiers, but the information had been most appreciated all the same.

The data pad Soundwave provided him was brisk and to the point - exactly how he liked his information served - and Prowl had to stifle an urge to hug the obedient little device when crisp, clear lines of data began to flow at the touch of his fingers. Prowl had dived into the massive report with gusto, and his optics were distant as he pondered and calculated his way through the information. In analysis of data, he was in his element, and he was already hard at work constructing various stratagems, several of which he had Long Haul send to Onslaught to aid in his upcoming rescue.

Prowl was so distracted that he didn't even react as a streak of red and yellow drove past him.

Wide passages and short ceilings were of no consequence to any of the racing vehicles, as Sunstreaker streaked by the tromping group of Constructicons at a semi-decent rate of speed.

Bob was sat in Sunstreaker's passenger seat, enjoying the breeze. Seventh heaven was his home now, the same place he'd been since reuniting with his family. Now he was leaning out the passenger-side window, facing the wind and panting happily. He was all but overheating for excitement and his systems were cooling him back down the old fashioned way; lots and lots of drool. With his back end wiggling for endless joy, Bob's streaks of drool left a wet splattering trail in Sunstreaker's wake, though fortunately the most of it was aimed outside of his interior.

Sunstreaker was breezing along at a surprisingly sedate pace (sedate for a Lamborghini, anyway) which likely had something to do with the fact that Sideswipe was roof-surfing on his back, holding on to the space between roof and open windows with one servo. The other was pointed forward in a _tally-ho_ sort of way and a delighted smirk was plastered over his face, for the first time in a long time.

Meanwhile, a panicked Nova Storm sprinted past the still-distracted Prowl and chattering Constructicons.

"He'll get _hurt_ if he falls you fragging lunatic!" Nova Storm shouted after Sunstreaker while giving chase on foot. He'd have flown after them, but the dark gray corridors were a maze of blunt and winding passages. The tight corners would be a bit much for any jet not named Starscream.

Ion Storm had already left for the bridge or there would have been two panicked seekers giving chase, though Nova Storm was doing his best to achieve sufficient panic levels to count for that lack. "You have to be careful with him! We don't have a good med-"

Hook's optics narrowed dangerously as Nova Storm ran past him. Nova's wings twitched and he knew damned better then to finish that particular sentence.

"-medbay!" Nova shouted even louder so that Hook and the rest of his heavy-hitting brothers would be sure to hear. He had just escaped from a near-impossible situation and there was no point in tempting fate...

Sunstreaker wasn't impressed with Nova's fussing. "He's my _brother!_ " he shouted back while taking a corner with equal measures of style and grace. "Of course I'm being careful!"

Meanwhile, still clinging to his roof, Sideswipe was urging Sunny to go faster - _go! go! go!_ \- and was loving the feel of rushing wind over his frame. He'd missed moving fast and free like this. His spark was pounding and if he had his plating it would be flared to the max. For the first time in a long time he felt more than barely functional, more than just squeaking by on a creaky tire rim... he felt _alive_.

 _Splat-splat-splatter_ came the trailing Bob-drool and Nova Storm's pursuit came to a crashing end when he slid through the drool-trail and ended up flat on his back. "Primus," he moaned, and then blinked when Wheeljack appeared from a side-passage and shuffled up to him.

'Jack had just hit the waddling stage along with Percy (who was settled safely in the command trine's new quarters). His mobility was questionable and he couldn't properly transform without his plating, but his new little family encouraged him and were constantly checking in on him. He was surrounded by his surrogate guardians at all times, and for the friendly attention he was feeling safe enough to wander around a bit.

Now Wheeljack was peering down at the prone jet-former ... _you want me to call a medic? ..._ his concerned gaze asked, but Nova Storm just smiled up at him and then waved a servo offhandedly. Wheeljack cocked his helm, and it was obvious he was pondering whether offering a hand up would be of any use. Nova Storm outright grinned at him, and that kindly little moment between carrier and guardian was dashed an instant later by the arrival of the Purple Menace.

_Wharp!_

"Air Commander wants to know what all the commotion ... is..." and Skywarp trailed off as his gaze left Nova Storm's and settled on Wheeljack. Task forgotten as fast as that, Skywarp flashed his lost-but-never-forgotten mate a playful smile. "Hey there, sleepy mech. How are you liking the new ship?"

As he spoke, Skywarp waved his hands around in a _what do you think_ sort of way, and Wheeljack nodded at him and made a show of sucking in a deep ventilation and letting it out with a satisfied sigh. _Much happier here,_ is what he meant. His meaning came through loud and clear. Skywarp flexed his wings proudly and pointed at himself and then at the ship, attempting to take full credit for the rescue.

Nova Storm tensed and shot the feckless prankster a warning look, followed by an actual warning. "Leave him alone. He wants to look around, and the ship's all clear. He doesn't actually like being carried anymore, so don't grab him. He's still kind of sensitive about everything and he doesn't like being hurried around or having mechs hurry around him right now. He needs time to process. We are keeping everything as calm as possible, so don't even _think_ about-"

"Hey," Skywarp lifted his servos in a gesture of surrender, "Whatever, alright? I know he can go wherever he wants."

Mollified, Nova Storm sat up and then groaned for all the drool coating his frame. Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Bob were long gone at this point. After tattling to Ion Storm (including incriminating vid-still pictures) and with another soft curse, Nova Storm turned his attention to his own sticky situation. Sliding his legs back under him, he began wiping futilely at the gooey strands of drool dripping from his flashy wings. He only succeeded in spreading the stuff around and then slipped again and landed back on his aft with huff.

Skywarp smirked down at his messy brother-in-arms.

He knew an opportunity when he saw one and he idled a little closer to 'Jack, offering up a conspiratorial grin. "Did you know this ship has a sort of lab with all sorts of science-y stuff in it? I bet you would just _love_ whoever showed you where to find it..." and Skywarp offered 'Jack his hand, his smiling face all innocent-like with flirty little flicks of his wings.

Nova Storm roared to his pedes in a slippery, flailing tangle while shouting, " _I_ was going to show him that!"  ...but with a purple smirk and a _wharp_ the corridor was left empty.

Skywarp and Wheeljack were already gone.

...

On the command deck, Megatron stood tall at the apex of the bridge while mechs milled about below him.

Tactical information scrolled across his HUD, and he skimmed through the data streams at his leisure. The easy access of information was reassuring, and he was relieved to be connected to the wider universe again, one of the many joys of freedom. They were still a few megacycles out from meeting up with Rodimus and his crew on the _Lost Light,_ but, just as with Prowl, the military commander in him was already eager to get to work.

Soundwave was handling much of the technicalities as was his wont, happily coordinating communication across all fronts. What was left of the Cybertronian forces were preparing a heavy push, intending to drive back the Quintesson currently pillaging the planet.

Megatron had already been looking over Soundwave's tactical data, and was equally as impressed with the _Lost Light_ and her captain. Rodimus was already responsible for multiple incursions against the Quintesson forces, and the _Retribution_ was set to join forces to help battle the Quintesson.

He'd received an odd communication from Rodimus Prime, a communique containing nothing more than a short note demanding a private audience as soon as Megatron arrived. Megatron had tapped out an equally brief reply, sending his confirmation with a quirked brow ridge. There was something in the way the request (more like querulous demand) was worded that gave him pause, lifting the plates at the back of his neck and triggering a lingering sense of déjà vu, but the moment was short-lived.

He had more than enough on his plate then to go chasing after memory-file ghosts. He would deal with this ... Rodimus Prime ... as soon as he arrived, putting him back in his place, if needed.

It was _Megatron_ who would be spearheading the attempt to save their home world, and he would be making sure of that. He was now the de facto leader of the free Cybertronian people. It was a position of great honor, though he knew he would have to share that responsibility as soon as Optimus Prime was repaired. He had considered several options, but the one that stuck out as most tolerable was an older type of government involving two leaders.

‘High Lord Protector’ sounded more acceptable now to his newly invigorated ideals then ‘Tyrant Lord’ or ‘Supreme Commander.’ He wasn't certain Optimus would approve but intended to bring it up as soon as Optimus was restored to full functionality. There was a medical team waiting on New Delphi where the survivors were congregating and reorganizing.

"Twelve parsecs left until neutral space and counting," Thundercracker called from his station, breaking Megatron's train of thought. "Still no sign of pursuit, and Soundwave says the official comm-lines are quiet."

Megatron's plating settled a few microns for the good news. At his side, Optimus dozed in the captain's chair. The Ammonite was nestled with him, almost hidden in the crook of his belly and the chair. Everyone else within audial range perked up a little.

"Looking good over here too," Acid Storm said while monitoring the ship's sensors. They, too, were showing only good things; nothing questionable within sensor range in any direction. He reported as much while sounding far less crabby than normal.

Megatron relaxed a little further. _Now would be a good time to tend to Optimus,_ he thought. It seemed their good luck was holding for the moment.

"I understand. I think it's safe to say we all feel that way," Thundercracker's confident voice cut through the otherwise quiet command station. "So I don't think that will be a problem."

Megatron glanced over at him, realizing he was addressing someone through internal comms.

 **"Twelve parsecs left until neutral space and counting,"** Thundercracker repeated over the ship's announcement systems.

Thundercracker wasn't being unduly loud, but the ship's internal announcement system certainly was. The noise woke Optimus and he snapped upright in the captain's chair with a soft huff. His hand landed over his middle and his face pinched with discomfort. At his side, the Ammonite nuzzled him, trying to soothe his upset. Optimus reached down to run a servo over the small frame with a soft rumble, then relaxed further when a dark servo lit upon his shoulder.

Megatron was looked down at him. "Ready to move to a quieter location?" 

Optimus didn't understand the question, but he waved off the concerned look. Sitting up a little straighter, his expression smoothed over and he forced himself to relax. He'd been drowsing off and on, trying to conserve his strength. He was doing everything in his power to maintain a dignified front, even as his contractions were coming faster and faster.

He was racing towards emergence, but his coding instincts were urging him to hide his pain. 

A hurting Predacon was a vulnerable Predacon, after all. Though he knew the basics of what was coming, he'd never sparked before. This was unfamiliar territory for him, and he was falling back on his new instincts as a guide for this completely new experience.

As such, Optimus was keeping a tight lid on his pain. 

It was probably the worst choice to make for his own wellbeing, but without the connection between words and memory he wasn't so cognizant of the instincts prodding him, and simply followed their directives. They'd served the ancient Predacon race well, but were less useful for sapient mechanisms. Under normal circumstances he would have communicated his discomfort. A short trip to the medbay would have ensued, with Ratchet fussing over him and crowds of onlookers and well-wishers arriving to clog up the corridors.

Even without words, Optimus could imagine the upcoming chaos.

He could imagine being open and exposed and everyone staring at him. Those imaginings made him anxious. He wanted privacy and quiet, and lots of it, and so he remained as low-key as possible. In fact, he was doing such a good job of keeping quiet that no one had any idea how close he was to the final stages of emergence.

But he couldn't fully hide his discomfort from the keen optics of his mate, and Megatron took the hint.

"Did you say the captain's quarters were on this deck?" Megatron called over to Thundercracker. He was pleased to learn they were just down the main corridor. He'd already asked for someone to go through crew quarters to clear out anything questionable. Primus only knew what organics kept in their domiciles and he didn't want any surprises.

Not tonight.

"Thrust says the captain's quarters are ready for you," Thundercracker offered. "I had Thrust leave some supplies that might be useful."

Megatron saw TC glance at Optimus with bright optics, and the anticipation he saw there mirrored his own feelings. They were both well aware of the significance of all the wincing, though as far as they knew, it would be some time yet.

Emergence was not a swift process.

"Keep me updated," Megatron ordered while gently wrestling with Optimus who - once again - didn't want any help out of his chair. Optimus' engine rumbled in warning, but the irritated clicks were rather subdued.

"Yes, I _know_ you can handle yourself," Megatron grumbled under his breath as he decided to force the issue this time. "You have spent countless eons mech-handling yourself _and_ me. I have any number of scars to attest to that. You have nothing to prove _,_ not between the two of us."

He leaned over his irritable mate, met his gaze firmly and laid the palms of his servo against the smooth, interlacing mesh plates of Optimus' back. "Pride should be secondary to conserving your strength for more important tasks. That means I _am_ going to help you out of this chair."

Staring down at those narrowed blue eyes, Megatron found himself quirking a smile, "so suck it up, angry truck."

Optimus snorted, but Megatron didn't back off. Instead, he braced his limbs and insisted on providing the leverage Optimus needed to struggle to his feet. He did refrain from carrying his consort outright, but only after Optimus shot him a warning look. They compromised and he offered an arm for support, which was accepted without hesitation.

They walked to their quarters one slow step at a time, though their sedate pace was only due in part to Optimus' condition. There was a steady procession of mechs heading up to the command deck, which slowed them down. Everyone wanted more updates as the _Retribution_ had no view ports of any kind. Other than the thrum of her engines, there was no way to know the ship was even moving.

There were no star-fields to look out at, except for the bridge's massive vid-screen. Everyone had the sense of standing still, when all anyone wanted to do was to race on home. It wasn't surprising then that most were lounging within a short walk from the command deck. Bolder mechs were taking any opportunity to invade the bridge for the chance to stare out at the stars until command chased them off.

With so many mechs clogging up the corridors, Megatron and Optimus found themselves deluged with greetings by well-wishers.

"Glad you're still kicking, Prime!" Sunstreaker called as he roared past in vehicle mode with a gleeful Sideswipe on his roof. He took the corner at a sharp slide, the squeal of his tires punctuated by a puff of smoke and Sideswipe leeeeaned into the slide, barely holding on and loving it.

Megatron simultaneously slapped a servo over Optimus' optics before he could see Sideswipe's precarious perch and lifted him up and over the slippery splatter of Bob-drool.

"Click," Optimus grumbled for the lifting, only ceasing when Megatron released him and his pedes were safely back on solid ground.

Megatron took Optimus' arm again. Looking back over his shoulder, Megatron was about to yell at Sunstreaker to _slow down for spark's sake_ but the happy threesome were already gone. He washed his servos of the silliness and returned his attention to his mate, who seemed out of sorts.

Optimus' worries of being overwhelmed by others seemed founded in truth. Anyone that encountered them stopped to chat, and several servos tried to reach out and touch his belly. He couldn't blame them for being excited for him, but at this point he just wanted away from everyone.

Sensing the source of his upset, Megatron adopted a stern expression, but curiously it didn't ward off his soldiers like it used to. No small numbers of mechs continued to approach and offer kind words, and in the case of Ion Storm, actually useful advice.

"I had Thrust leave some pillows I had the Junkions cobble together," Ion Storm said as he stepped aside to let them pass. "His chest plates are going to ache like nothing else afterwards. Might want to see if you can get any sort of pain patches for him. I lived on those things after my first was born."

Megatron thanked him, and they continued down the hall. Halfway there Optimus stopped worrying about appearances and began leaning heavily on his consort.

"Here we are," Megatron murmured to him, and keyed open the door.

Their new quarters were acceptable to his eyes. The main room was comfortable enough, though the berth in the adjoining room was covered in some sort of spongy material. He poked at the mattress with a mild frown, disappointed to find it was all connected and couldn't be removed. There was an organic scent that clung to it, a certain meaty dankness so common of carbon creatures.

Other than that, Megatron felt pleased at the size and cleanliness of their new living space. "This looks acceptable, don't you think, Prime?"

Optimus looked dubious.

However it smelled, the berth did look rather comfy, several times more nefarious then the comfy chair. It was fortunate that soft, deep-set furniture wouldn't be his bane for much longer.

"Much better than the trash heap we have been living in," Megatron said as he took a step away. His hands settled onto his hips as Optimus poked at the mattress and considered laying down on it. He really didn't like the organic smell, though. His carrier coding was pinging warnings at him as anything unfamiliar right now was potentially dangerous.

Only Megatron's cloying scent made their new living area bearable, and Optimus swallowed back a moan. His contractions were pulsing steadily now. He swallowed again as Megatron continued to chatter at him. Megatron's servos were still, only moving to reach out and touch this and that, and it was obvious he'd forgotten in the pleasure of the moment that Optimus couldn't understand him.

"It might be best to offset our recharge cycles for share our newspark," Megatron said while testing the sturdiness of a set of chairs in the corner. "We can pass him or her back and forth for the first few cycles; or if you would allow it, I can hold her in my cockpit for the duration. I would prefer to keep our infant secured until our situation seems more stable."

He grunted in satisfaction when the chair took his weight, as organic constructs so often failed to hold the weight of the metal races. He glanced over his shoulder and watched as Optimus tested the berth, sitting down into the softness.

"Go ahead and lay back," Megatron offered, gesturing at the berth and flattened his palm. "Try to relax if you can. Let me know if I can help you with anything."

Megatron pointed at himself and then back to Optimus and opened his arms for the concept of _anything you need_. He felt satisfied when Optimus relaxed a little for the gestures and nodded at him with softening optics.

"Ion Storm suggested pain patches, and I have a few here," Megatron said, digging the supplies out and setting them on the table.

"We only have a few, so best wait to use them for recharging periods." The patches joined the piles of supplies that Thrust, TC, and Ion Storm had left for them, anything they thought might be useful. It seemed they'd raided all sorts of supply caches as the table was almost overflowing, a pleasing sight.

Satisfied, Megatron gathered up an armful of pillows and walked over to try and help Optimus stretch out on the berth. Dumping them onto the berth, he reached out to take hold of his mate, but once again his efforts to help were waved away. He frowned, considering. How far was too far to push right now? He wanted to lay his hands on his mate, wanted to ... well he wanted to lick at him, truth be told.

Most surely a throwback of the Predacon guardian coding. 

 _Probably all they had to work with to ease whatever passed for emergence for them,_ Megatron thought while working his mouth a little. He stifled a chuckle after imagining how Optimus would react to him just ... holding him down and licking him from top to bottom with his glossa. _He'd never let me forget it, once he could tease me about it again._

Then Thundercracker commed him with an update.

<Onslaught's dart-ship has successfully detached, and the Combaticons are on their way to rescue Blast Off. Onslaught says they will travel back to Cybertron on their own and reconvene with us there.>

<Blast Off will be most relieved to see them,> Megatron acknowledged.

He knew it was a source of anxiety for the entire Combaticon team. He was pleased they were finally able to do something for their team mate and said as much.

<We gave them everything we could find to help. Scavenger even wrestled Hook for his welder, since he doesn't need it anymore,> Thundercracker agreed, and then launched into the next order of business. 

<Also, I wanted to check with you. We have a handful of dart-ships, and the Junkions are getting antsy. They asked for one, and I'd like to let them have it. It would get them out from underfoot and Pipes has already volunteered to start cleaning up the ship as soon as they depart.>

<Go ahead and let them go,> Megatron said, adding that they had earned it.

No small part of his generosity was wrapped up in the prospect of living in clean spaces again. That, and the dart-ships would be of limited use to the Resistance anyway. It seemed sensible enough to let the Junkions take one. After a few last words, he was just about to kill the connection when his Air Commander made a particular noise over the line.

<Problem?>

<Something else,> Thundercracker said with some hesitation. Now Megatron could hear him tapping at a console, and when he spoke again Megatron could tell he was frowning.

Thundercracker's worry intruded through the line, loud and clear in his voice as he clarified, <Soundwave's just reported a ping from a long-range sensor, maybe from another ship. I am trying to track down the source, but the readings are a little confusing.>

Megatron didn't like the sound of that in the slightest. The last thing they needed was trouble. As far as he could tell his newspark was set to emerge within the cycle, and a firefight battle was the worst possible scenario.

<It's probably nothing-> Thundercracker tried to play off the readings. He knew Megatron was already engaged and likely to take this news badly, but his efforts were not convincing.

Megatron found the urge to get back to the bridge and take command almost overwhelming. His guardian instincts of _kill the intruders_ backed up his normal need for control, but there was more than just his desires to be considered here. He turned and looked at Optimus carefully, working out how best to make himself understood, how much information to relay to his mate.

He didn't want Optimus to worry himself, after all.

Stepping closer, he overlapped his electromagnetic fields, feeling out how Optimus was doing to help gauge the situation. He felt reassured when Optimus' fields pulsed in a controlled thrum. As far as he could tell, Optimus seemed calm and collected. The contractions _were_ coming off and on, though he wasn't sure the frequency. There were twinges of discomfort, yes, but no sense of impending panic.

To his inexperienced optics, it seemed Optimus was far from final emergence. _Should have enough time to look over a few sensor scans_ , he thought. _Plenty of time to make sure we aren't about to be ambushed by our enemies._

Still, he was careful to confirm. Stepping close, he knelt down before his Prime. "Do you need me to stay with you?" Megatron asked, touching the curve of a smooth cheek with his finger, "or do you think it would be safe for me to leave for a few breems?"

He followed his question with a concerned look and pointed at himself and back at Optimus. Then he tapped his HUD and pointed at the door with a questioning look.  

Optimus nodded at him, sensing the reasons behind the request. Something was happening, and he wasn't going to keep Megatron from whatever needed his attention. Megatron offered him a final shoulder squeeze and turned away. Glancing back over his shoulder, he smiled reassuringly at Optimus as he advised Thundercracker he was on his way, brushing off his Air Commander's protests.

Then the door swished closed behind him as he headed back to the bridge at a brisk pace, worried. Foremost in his mind was the concern that the Maulers had begun to pursue them.

"Someone's finally noticed us?" Ion Storm called after him as he entered the lift to the command deck. Out in the corridors, mechs were buzzing with the news, including a firmly chastised Sunstreaker.

Sideswipe was too busy playing with Bob to pay attention to any worrying details. 'Sides had settled on fetch as it was Bob's favorite game, second only to eating bad guys. But Sideswipe didn't have a ball to throw, so he improvised and kept pointing at Nautilator with a _fissht-click_ call that sounded like _fetch_ and Bob kept dragging the fleeing lobster-con back over to Sideswipe's pedes in an improvised game of fetch-the-scowling-Seacon.

Threatening claw snaps did nothing to phase the insecticon runt, who took the _snicker-snak-snaps_ as a fun challenge. But Nautilator knew damned better than to threaten Sideswipe - not with all these protective guardians present, anyway. Sideswipe was taking full advantage while Sunstreaker smirked and Ion Storm handled business.

Further down the hall, the Junkions were gathering up as much useful trash as they could, stuffing their dart-ship full to the brim. They were preparing to launch, and more then a few goodbyes were being exchanged. Some of them had made friends among the Cybertronians, and would be missed.

The happy chaos was in full swing, and Megatron surveyed all of his mechs and nodded to himself.

Alright then.

"It will be handled," Megatron said to Ion Storm, and took another moment to assure them all while projecting a steely calm and control.

Then the lift doors closed, shutting out the noise, leaving Megatron to the ordered calm of his thoughts.

The lift lurched and began to move, and Megatron's sense of unease deepened the further away from his carrier he got. His guardian instincts were split now, wanting to kill the intruders but also screaming at him to return. As far as the coding was concerned, his entire point of existence was to defend his mate and he couldn't do that if he wasn't close at hand. Beyond those instincts, he didn't want to miss any part of emergence, but for duty he felt he must.

After all, he was responsible for all the mechs on board this ship.

Megatron resolved the conflict by telling himself to hurry. _This might be nothing at all,_   he thought, _perhaps just a sensor blip._ He should be back quickly. He had some idea that Optimus was keeping control of his discomfort, but he didn't realize how much self-control Optimus was bringing to bear at that moment.

If he had, he would have never left.

 

* * *

 

Some distance away, the Combaticon's dart-ship was also making good time.

Onslaught was multi-tasking, piloting the ship while also working on his battle plans. They were approaching the asteroid colony the Quintesson had developed into a breeding center. Their excitement for the coming battle had them checking and rechecking their supplies and assigned tasks. The hum of pre-battle was all around them, thrumming in their electromagnetic fields, deadly serious for their intent.

For his part, Blast Off was still unconscious. His side of the gestalt bond was silent, and he'd been like this for some time now. He had only brief moments of panicked wakefulness, though there was a steady undercurrent of discomfort and fluidic motion from him, and other then that, nothing.

As such, there was no way to warn him they were coming. Of all of them, Onslaught found the wait the most frustrating. All he wanted was for the maiming and shooting and rescuing to start, and instead he had ... _Brawl_.

Brawl was on navigation duty, and his constant chatter was chipping away at Onslaught's patience. Brawl might have been joking with him, as his topics of conversation ranged here and there, darting about like an over-stimulated ferret. His chattering was as random as ever, and Onslaught couldn't tell what he was supposed to be laughing at anymore. He was dead tired of the whole business.

Right now they were alone in the small bridge of the dart ship, and Brawl was just launching into a story about a bar and jumper cables, and finally Onslaught had had _enough_.

"I can't do it," Onslaught broke in, ruining what was probably the punchline to a really bad joke. His lip plating became a thin, thin line as he faced down his most loyal and exasperating team mate.

Brawl tilted his helm in curiosity. "Can't do what, boss?"

Onslaught was clutching at the controls. "I know about the thing with Skullcruncher." He sucked in a deep vent. "I can't do it, Brawl."

"Oh, that," and Brawl blinked. "Who told you about that? Anyway, I already told Skullcruncher there was no way. And anyway, who knows where he is, so it's all kinda," and he waved his hands in a _who the slag even knows_ sort of gesture.

The edge of Onslaught's optic began to twitch. "Then why the frag are you driving me crazy?"

Brawl stared down at Onslaught, looking him up and down. Standing there, under the stark lighting of the dart-ship, Onslaught looked every bit as battered as Megatron, as all of the Quintesson captives.

Brawl had a concerned look on his face behind his blast mask. Onslaught couldn't see it, but he knew it was there. "Been worried about you, boss," Brawl admitted, leaning down with a morose expression...

...that was just a little too deep to be sincere. Brawl just wasn't that kind of mech, but now Onslaught was all suspicious. "Been worried about the whole team," Brawl continued, hunching down a little as his frame went all tense, "and ya know we all been eatin' a lot of slag these last couple of years. Only mech who hasn't crashed and burned for a few was you, so I was just-"

-and at this exact moment Brawl backfired out his tailpipe with an audial-shattering _PFFFFFFTPT!_ and leapt up onto the console and screamed with arms wide-

"JET POWER!!"

Breathless, Brawl stared down at Onslaught harder then he'd ever stared before, and the basset-hound look was back. He seemed frozen between triumph and failure; his arms out wide with fingers splayed for hope.

The moment went long as subordinate and commander stared at each other over a chasm that seemed insurmountable.  "...still nothin', huh?" and Brawl's electromagnetic field - normally steady as a rock - was now tinged with desperation.

"Was ... that a joke?" Onslaught asked, confused again. His hands were clasped so tightly around the console-edge as to meld them to his fingers, but honest to Primus, nothing Brawl had done up to that point was triggering any sort of funny switch that everyone else seemed to have. Everyone but him. There was no laughter within him, Onslaught was certain.

"Yeah," Brawl shifted on his pedes and the console creaked complaint for the weight. "It was my last one, actually." He seemed to deflate a bit as he dropped his arms and rolled his shoulders. Still towering over Onslaught from where he was standing on the console, Brawl had never looked so disappointed in his long life.

"Brawl?" Onslaught asked quietly. He didn't move, didn't even cycle his optics.

"Yuh, boss?"

"Get off the display console before you break it."

Brawl sighed. It was a long-suffering sound, the sound of a mechanism that had run out of funny material. It seemed gratuitous, groupie tailpipe was not in his future. He grumbled a little, but seemed prepared to admit defeat at long last.

Then Vortex exploded into the room with Swindle at his heels, startling Brawl before he could climb down. Vortex was holding some cobbled together stack of _things_ in his arms. "Mechs, you won't believe what I found in the-"

Distracted and curious, Brawl took a step forward, having forgotten he was precariously perched on the edge of the console. It was a beautiful moment. Exquisite even, as he took a parade step forward - instinctively avoiding the pilot's manual control stick - and stepped onto thin air, as if under the full assumption it was going to somehow, magically, hold him up.

Alas, bugs bunny he was not, and several tons of Brawl pitched forward and landed face first with a high-pitched yipe. The console caught on his treads and followed after him, a puff of carbon and severed wiring sparked, followed by two _whomp whomps_ as his feet landed after his face and an avalanche of unhappy dreck smooshed him flat.

"Fragging Primus," Vortex cursed, and took a step back.

A few shaky moments passed as the three untouched Combaticons stared in shock for the sudden carnage. And then Brawl's shaky servo emerged through the dreck piled over him, offering a shaky thumbs up.

A teeny, muffled, "'m okay" drifted over to their audials.

Onslaught swallowed carefully. His fists clenched down on the controls even as his optics went wide. He swallowed again, and then again as a rising tide of _something_ burst forth, shattering his carefully projected demeanor of complete and utter control.

"-HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH-"

Brawl staggered out from under the ruined console, frantically slapping at his HUD. His struggles sent snapped wires and glass shards and the ruined manual stick flying when he drew himself upright and - fists raised to the heavens - screamed, _"I broke my vid-feed!"_

Somehow, Onslaught laughed even harder, and the noise was infectious, spreading throughout the small space.

It was Swindle who saved the day for the spark-broken Brawl. He offered a thumbs up and a cheery, "No worries you fragging nutcase. I recorded the entire thing for you. Sweet angle too. Hell, I won't even charge you my usual royalty fees," and then he saluted the dusty, happy Brawl. 

Meanwhile, Onslaught was still struggled to regain control of himself. It turns out, laughing _did_ help as he felt just a little lighter for the noise-explosion. "Oh Primus," he groaned. "I think I actually needed that."

"I _said_ , you mechs won't believe what I found in the emergency supplies," Vortex cut in, waving off the chaos. There was a glimmer of relief in his optics though, as now that Brawl had what he wanted, some of the madness should settle out...

"Well, what did you find?" Onslaught asked while wiping under his blast mask. Apparently laughing that hard meant losing momentary control of one's optical fluid dispensers, and he was clearing away the excess fluid with the back of his servo. Next to him, Swindle noticed an indicator going off and turned to investigate. He walked to the blinking navigation panel and began tapping at the keys.

Vortex grinned. "Everything I need to slap together a couple of smart bombs." His triumphant grin remained, even as Onslaught whomped him on the back with a delighted grunt and began updating his stratagems.

"Hey, love droids," Swindle called over his shoulder. "We are on final approach and looks like Soundwave hasn't lost his touch. Intel's dead on, and the Quint's colony is just ahead."

Then everyone jumped as an old system alert lit up their HUDs. It was an old fail-safe in case one of them became injured or separated from each other; a bit of hardware installed that alerted them to each other's location.

That long distance prox alarm had just gone off. "He's here for sure," Vortex muttered, though it wasn't necessary. Everyone could see the alerts, could see how many times it had been initiated, hundreds upon hundreds of times as a barely conscious Blast Off had pounded his panic button over and over throughout his captivity in the breeding facility.

Everyone straightened and their playful moods vanished in an instant as Swindle's tone flattened. "His life signs are weak, but steady. We'll need to get him into the medical alcove ASAP, though."

The boisterous band of brothers vanished, and in their place stood stone cold killers, come to reclaim one of their own.

 

* * *

 

Optimus was resting on the berth when the first real contraction hit.

He gasped as it sent a shock of pain through him, up through his lines and directly into his spark chamber.

Then the carrier coding kicked in, sending intense surges of fear through him, prompting him to return to the safety of his nest. The problem was, he was sectors away from any space that his coding would deem safe. Their new quarters were spacious, clean and cozy compared to their quarters on Uytis, but because he hadn't spent enough time there, his instincts warned him otherwise.

The organic smell in the room didn't help matters in the slightest. He was no longer comforted by his guardian's pheromones, and the organic scent was particularly upsetting to him. He didn't recognize the captain's quarters in any way. At this point, he would have been happier in a nest of garbage back on Uytis.

His newspark was on the way, and it felt like he had nowhere safe to retreat to. In something of a panic, he thrashed and thrashed when the soft berth padding made it difficult to get to his pedes. His sudden fear of being trapped further triggered his carrier coding, and the last of his calm left him amidst a good old-fashioned panic.

Beneath the berth, the Ammonite cat woke and climbed up onto the bed, looking tense. He watched as Optimus struggled, mewling questioningly. He understood that Optimus couldn't speak or understand him, and so was committed to communicate by non-verbal means only, and right now he was projecting his concern through soft little mews.

Optimus continued to struggle, the movements only hurrying him onward towards the final stages of emergence. Rubbing at his chest plates, he felt a strong urge to open himself, but resisted. He still needed to find somewhere safe. Finally he struggled upright and stood on the ground, recovering his balance. The fingers of both hands curled as another contraction hit, even stronger this time, and his carrier instincts carried him towards the door.

The Ammonite cat darted after him, staying close. Even as nervous as he was, the Ammonite kept looking down the hallway as he could tell something was happening, and felt like he should go fetch help.

 **"Eleven parsecs left and counting,"** Thundercracker's voice blared out of the hidden loudspeakers all across the ship. **"Still no pursuit, though Command is monitoring the situation with the unidentified ship. More news as events warrant."**

For his part, Optimus stumbled out of his quarters and down the hall, searching for something he didn't know how to recognize. He stopped at a junction in the hallway, and heard mechs approaching in the distance, chattering at each other. The last thing he wanted right now was other mechs. He needed someplace dark and quiet, because he didn't feel safe. He felt hot and achy, and the stabbing pains in his chest were steadily increasing in frequency. It was a countdown to something wondrous and intense and painful and he knew it, and wholly gone was all sense of calm.

Half of him wanted Megatron, and he couldn't stifle the soft calling clicks that rattled around his throat and crept out his intakes, but the other half was screaming for quiet and dark and _that_ was the part of him that he finally gave into.

The little Ammonite cat mewed again. The sound was almost questioning, and far more cognizant then any animal should be. Optimus, desperate, turned toward him. He had some sense that the little mech-animal was far more then what he appeared, and he invested some faith in his companion.

 _Need someplace safe,_ Optimus gestured at the little creature, trying to explain what he needed. 

The Ammonite didn't answer, but flicked his tail in understanding. He cocked his helm (accessing the ship's internal systems to acquire a map) and then took a few steps away and looked back over his shoulder. He had some idea of what Optimus wanted from watching him, and now he clearly wanted Optimus to follow him.

Optimus took several hesitant steps forward, as the contractions were coming faster and faster now. He could feel his chest plates twitching and deep inside something was pulsing, the stabbing pains marking the passage of something too big to move through any other cavity but his chest. He felt an intense desire to open his chest plate, but forced them to stay closed.

_No ready yet!_

_Not safe!_

But warning pings were filling up his HUD, not that he could read any of them. Soon his desires would be overwritten by basic need, and his newspark would be born in the middle of the corridor, and Optimus' spark quailed. In that moment, the Ammonite cat proved his worth as a companion. Optimus' faith was rewarded when the little creature guided him to a nearby grate, an accessible part of the ventilation system.

_Yes! This would work!_

Hurrying, he pulled it open. He was relieved when cool, clean air washed over him, fresh from the filtration system, lacking all scent of organics. The space was quiet and dark and just large enough for him to wedge into.

His carrier instincts calmed and he curled around himself, huffing and huffing. His HUD pinged final warnings - it would override him this time - even as his chest plates opened and parted, and he didn't try to stop them.

Instead he gasped as the components in his chest creaked. He could feel previously unused gears turning inside, shifting around his internals in unusual ways. His frame strained in earnest now and continued to evict something from deep inside.

His breath was coming in great gasps now, and there was a sudden surge of pain and the pulsing stopped entirely. It was replaced by a steady roar of pain as his internals twisted and strained with an intensity he didn't know he was capable of. He had a sense of something sinewy bursting inside and out rushed a small waterfall of clear fluid.

The Ammonite cat peered up at him, saw his chest plates open and the rush of fluid. With a soft noise of dismay, the small cat turned and bolted away. He darted down the corridors and hallways, startling mechs and weaving between various pedes, heading towards the lift to the bridge and Megatron.

He darted past Bob who howled greetings - a new playmate?! - then threatened to give chase. But the little cat leap into midair and bounced off the side of the lift, smacking the panel with his paws. The left doors closed at the last instant, showcasing Bob's disappointed expression at the loss of his new buddy.

Back in the grate, Optimus was in too much pain to notice the loss of his companion. He ground his denta and struggled to stifle his cries, the carrier coding all but shutting off his vocalizer for this critically vulnerable moment.

He was at the final stage now, and the curled frame of the newspark could be seen crowning, strong and healthy. A half-strangled cry escaped him, a futile effort to call for his mate as he was well and truly out of time.

 

* * *

 

The sensor ping that Soundwave had detected was indeed a dangerous enemy, but it was not a Mauler ship. It was a small scout ship, and right behind it was a large Quintesson battle fleet.

There was enough of them to cause a serious problem for anyone in that area of space... and more than enough to reclaim the small group of Cybertronians. Especially as damaged and undernourished as they all were.

Megatron decided that sounding an alert was counterproductive. Running panic never helped any sort of serious situation, and they weren't at the point of joining battle. Instead he chose to keep the situation mostly mum. He had Thundercracker provide basic information over the ship's internal comms, but ordered him to leave out anything truly alarming. They'd just had a sensor ping, confirming someone was out there, but so far nothing indicating pursuit.

 **"Ten parsecs left and counting,"** Thundercracker offered up the next update, hoping to keep things calm for everyone else. No point in panicking anyone not in command, not at this point. **"No update on the unidentified ship, but we are still not being pursued. So settle down, mechs."**

It was true, for the most part.

Only the senior members of Command knew the ugly details, and it was a very tense Soundwave who arrived shortly thereafter. He took his place at the communications console while Thundercracker and Megatron took up positions around the bridge's various consoles and settled down for a harrowing few joors.

Megatron debated sending Ion Storm to watch over Optimus, but figured he'd have enough time to get back before things got exciting. Optimus had seemed so calm and sedate...

Still, his spark thrummed with anxiety and it wasn't long before Megatron was standing at Soundwave's shoulder, watching as he scanned the Mauler communication hubs. There was a battle fleet of Quintesson on the Mauler's doorstep, but it was clear that the Quintesson scout was preforming his job well, and the communication lines remained quiet.

The _Retribution_ was shadowed by the scout ship for the better part of a joor.

Thundercracker's wings stayed flared for the duration, but it soon became clear that the scout ship was actually trying to avoid them. It was leading the Quintesson battlefleet through Mauler space, _around_ their position, not towards it. The entire fleet was moving furtively, doing their utmost to avoid any contact with other vessels.

Watching them adjust their course again and again, Soundwave was able to calculate that they were heading towards Uytis, and reported as much. Megatron scowled at the vid screen, wishing he had any of his old fleets of Decepticon warships at his disposal. This was the sort of scenario he'd faced countless times in the Great War, and there were so many ways he could ruin the Quintesson, had he any useful tools at his disposal.

"They're heading to Uytis for _us_ ," Thundercracker muttered and a shiver ran down his back strut. "We got out just in time."

"Should we notify the Maulers?" Acid Storm suggested. "Maybe a text only message to let them know that our ship saw something? Would be great way to frag with them." There was a certain gleefulness in his optics. It wasn't lost on any of them that they were poised to ruin the day of both the Quintessons _and_ the Maulers, simultaneously.

A short conversation ensued and everyone was rapidly warming to the idea, but Megatron shut down those musings right quick. "No contact, and leave it. We don't know if any of our people are aboard those ships," he pointed out, "and any sort of battle would endanger them."

"Ship wide stress level: excessive." Soundwave noted, and Thundercracker turned and headed towards the communication console. The tension from the command crew was leaking out now. They had cordoned off the bridge, not allowing the usual stream of visitors, and the rest of their crew was starting to sense something serious might be up.

Time for another announcement.

 **"We are in the free and clear, mechs. Unidentified ship has moved off with no further pings. 10 parsecs left to go until neutral space."** Thundercracker made the update short and sweet, and his voice crackled through the ship's comm system. The bridge crew couldn't hear it, but all across the ship mechs exploded into noisy cheers.

Standing to the forefront of the bridge, Megatron was watching the star fields pass with distant optics. He rubbed at his face and his optics caught on the captain's chair. It was empty now, and Megatron straightened for the reminder.

"Optimus Prime: experiencing strong discomfort," Soundwave said. "Perhaps best to return to quarters."

"We should be able to handle things here," Thundercracker added, and as he spoke the lift opened.

They all glanced at it, and at first it seemed no one was inside. Then they heard the patter of small pedes and the Ammonite cat, unusually bold, leapt up and landed on the back of the captain's chair.

Megatron tensed and asked, "What are you doing here?" He was already heading towards the lift because in his spark he _knew_ and then the Ammonite cat was running at his feet, keeping his pace. "Transbiotic fluid sac just burst," the little mech informed him. "You have a couple of breems at most."

Thundercracker and Soundwave perked up, and the latter looked like he might even request to come along, but Megatron didn't notice. With a curse, he was already bolting for the lift, with the Ammonite right on his heels.

"Better hurry," the cat urged, which was exactly what Megatron did.

 

* * *

 

 

They fought their way inside, taking the facility level by brutal level.

Blaster burns and gunshot were shrugged off, and Onslaught shouted orders and forward they pressed, deeper into the facility. They moved like a well-oiled machine, every gear in harmony. Whatever their problems, whatever their issues with each other, this was where they existed as one and they laid waste to the guards, breaking every damn thing they could for spite.

After the first few levels the worst of the opposition was felled, and they found themselves cutting through the bulk of the opposition - the slaves not so inclined to throw their lives away against level ten threats - like a knife through butter.

"He's on this level," Swindle shouted, and he began to cut through the door lock.

"Slag's getting hot," Brawl snarled. He fired his blaster several times down the corridor, more then a few of his shots connecting. Shrieks of pain were music to his audials. "Did you tentacle bastard freaks forget you had to shock us the first time!?"

Then Brawl shot over his own shoulder with sharp successive bursts.

More shrieks, more alarms.

"We're not leaving without him," Vortex cried, not that it was his decision to make. But they were all in agreement. This infiltration was far harder then they had been expecting, but they remained a well oiled machine, working together to hold all the guards at bay and fight their way towards Blast Off.

Finally Swindle managed to cut through the heavy door lock and they broke into the chamber where Blast Off was being held. It was filled with tubes, but only one of the occupants was Cybertronian, only one pod of any interest to them.

"Seal the door, Onslaught ordered. "Vortex, set the charges - the good slag with the wide splatter - and we'll let the bastards get close and then blow it."

"I'll look for the override," Swindle said. He started towards the control panel, but wasn't fast enough. Brawl caught sight of Blast Off's frame - much smaller now - in one of the pods and he hissed.

Swindle had just started tapping at the controls when Brawl growled something harsh and ripped the entire pod right out of the wall. Hauling it into the center of the room, he started smashing it with his fists, unwilling to wait for anything more elegant then freeing Blast Off with his bare servos _right now_.

The sounds of fists battering the containment pod filled the small room, and Onslaught grunted approval and added his own to the ruckus. Even with the hits he'd taken and the trouble they'd met, this mission was going well, and now Blast Off was in reach.

"You frag with one of us, you frag with all of us," Swindle shouted, smashing a fist into the wall for emphasis. He could hear the Quints on the opposite side of the sealed entryway he was reinforcing, snapping and snarling at their slaves. He could tell they were setting up some sort of battering device to break down the door, and reported as much to the rest of the team.

Vortex grunted agreement while pulling out and arming a smart bomb cluster. "Let them bust through. I'm rigging a surprise for them, and it should give us enough of a lead to break out and get back to the ship with Blast Off."

Swindle left Vortex to it, and began cutting an improvised passage through into the next room, pulling out a rough welder from his subspace. It was the same welder Scavenger had built for Hook, gifted to them in case they needed it. Everyone had been pulling for them back on the _Retribution_ , and the welder was coming in handy after all.

Vortex set up station next to Swindle, rigging the nasty little device to blow when the Quints managed to break through. They would be fleeing out Swindle's escape hole by that point, leaving the Quints to enjoy their little present. Vortex concentrated on his work, but still kept one optic trained on Blast Off's prone form, blurry for the viscous fluid he was still submerged in.

None of them had any idea what they were going to do after the rescue, how they was going to help Blast Off pick up the pieces the Quints had torn him into. But one thing was certain ... whatever demons he would have to face, he wouldn't be facing them alone.

"Hurry," Vortex called over his shoulder. "We are running out of time!"

"Almost through over here!" Swindle called, and it was a good thing, as they could hear the Quints starting up their battering device, and Vortex's little present was almost ready.

Onslaught and Brawl doubled down, tearing furiously into the miserable pod, and the sounds of reinforced glass shattering echoed off the confining walls. Inside the pod, Blast Off was starting to stir as Brawl and Onslaught assaulted his prison with maximum prejudice.

 

* * *

 

Charging down the corridor, Megatron was fortunate that the Ammonite was a generally kind-sparked individual (so long as you weren't a rival Terradore, anyway). He showed Megatron exactly where his mate was hiding instead of merely fleeing to a safer locale and waiting out the excitement, as he was well within bounds to do after such terrible treatment at the hands of the Cybertronians.

Some things tended to transcend species lines, and this was one of them. "He's hiding in here," the Ammonite said, and then took care to give them both a little distance. He was a sire himself, and knew the importance of this moment. Thanks to his kindness, Megatron arrived just in time to greet his newborn.

"Primus," Megatron cursed, shoving the grate cover away and kneeling down over his trembling, straining mate. "Optimus? What possessed you to come out _here_?"

It ended up being a rhetorical question, as the next moment found him realizing just how close he'd come to missing one of the most important moments of his long life. For Optimus, with a last and final surge, completed emergence at last. He fell back as Megatron lunged forward and helped him catch the new life.

"Oh," Megatron murmured, falling back on his aft. He didn't even bother to quiet his noisy rumble of delight as he held his newspark for the first time. The little mecha was much larger then Jazz's infant, having been carried to term and amply supported in the last vestiges of gestation.

He reached down and touched her little face, blue and silver, with optics still tightly closed. She was smaller then normal thanks to the damned Quints, but still. Megatron was most pleased, but a thorough check over would have to wait.

Optimus' chest plates were already closing after pushing the newspark and her gestation sac from the safety of his body, but it was obvious he was still in intense pain. He was sitting in a steaming puddle of clear fluid, and his vents were working feverishly to cool his frame. For all the fuss and bother, he still looked utterly relieved his momentous task was finally complete.

But he was an absolute mess, and thanks to his last minute panic, the ventilation duct was also an absolute mess. "I shouldn't have left," Megatron murmured as he tucked his newspark close while looking over Optimus, feeling guilt crashing down. But at the same time, his vigilance meant they now had this time to greet and tend their newspark together, safe and comfortable.

Then Megatron handed him their infant to hold. Optimus was still hurting, but holding his infant helped. This time Optimus didn't fight him in the slightest when Megatron gathered them both up into his arms. Both carrier and infant were in dire need for a warm bath, and Megatron hefted Optimus to carry him and their newspark back to their new quarters.

Heading back towards their quarters, Megatron caught sight of Soundwave coming down the corridor towards him. He'd followed after Megatron during his flight from the bridge, but now he seemed unusually hesitant.

As Megatron strode by, Soundwave stopped and stepped off to the side. He was fully respecting their space, but he leaned in as if to sneak a peek. He didn't want to intrude on the intimacy of the moment, but was too hopeful for a glimpse of the newspark to fully stay away. He'd been meaning to go down and check on Ratchet and Jazz's newspark, maybe bribe the Autobots into letting him hold the little one for a few moments, but the Quintesson battle fleet had derailed him.

Now his oldest friend and leader was walking by with a brand spanking new infant, and Soundwave just couldn't help himself. He edged closer and closer, careful to toe the line of respectful hope, but aching for a glimpse. These little ones were the first newsparks in eons, and he was having flashbacks to the happy years he'd adopted Squawktalk and had an infant of his own for a time.

Megatron took pity on his old friend and paused for a brief moment, flashing Soundwave a quick grin of acceptance. He allowed Soundwave's approach, tolerating the other's presence as his guardian coding recognized Soundwave as a pack mate, and not a threat.

Soundwave snatched at the opportunity and moved in close, reaching out a gentle finger to stroke a tiny cheek. Behind his mask, his lips curved upward in delight, and the tiniest little _wibble_ escaped his iron control, whispered out by his traitorous engine.

Megatron grinned proudly, his plating flared for pleasure. He heartily forgave Soundwave his little lapse, as his newborn _was_ absolutely adorable, surely the most adorable of any newborn ever sparked in the history of Cybertron, possibly even to the point of cuteness that transcended even dimensional barriers, multi- _dimensional_ levels of cuteness - (a new sire, biased? surely not!) - and the moment stretched long as they grinned down at the tiny newspark.

Then Optimus' head lulled back against Megatron's shoulder, and he stifled a soft groan against the dark metal there. It was a firm reminder he was due for an evening of TLC, and with an apologetic glance, Megatron indicated that Soundwave's moment was up. His mate and newspark needed tending, and he couldn't delay any longer, not even for his oldest friend.

Soundwave understood entirely and dipped his helm. He remained standing in the corridor, watching as Megatron hurried away. These first few hours were critical for bonding and Megatron's soft murmurs of appreciation and Optimus' exhausted but happy engine purrs were accompanied by the newspark's first little attempts at vocalization.

That teeny, happy noise reminded Soundwave of something. "Have items for newspark back in shuttle," Soundwave called after Megatron. "Permission to bring them by later?" 

"Of course," Megatron called over his shoulder, and Soundwave's servos landed on his hips in triumph and he smiled behind his mask.

It was a sensible and valid excuse for him to come by and wibble over his leader's infant, as early as tomorrow. Perfect. His fingers curled and his spark was pulsing happily within him. He stood in the corridor for some time after Megatron left, torn between the desire to preserve his reputation as a serious mech with serious problems, and the intense urge to go and see if he would be allowed to hold the other newborn on the ship.

He probably would have given in to his need to wibble, except that the night cycle was coming on, and his sense of propriety intruded. Soundwave was nothing if not practical, and it really would be best if he waited until morning. His wibble-chances were far higher if he wasn't disturbing the resident carriers as they bedded down for recharge.

Decision made, Soundwave compromised with himself. Instead of Ratchet's quarters, he turned and went in search of his eldest cassette, as he was still in desperate need of someone to cuddle. His engine was chock-full of wibbles, and he needed an outlet, stat.

Lurking in the archway of a nearby side passage, the Ammonite cat watched him leave, but didn't make any move to follow after Megatron and Optimus, who were rapidly disappearing down the far corridor. He was well aware of the _fantastic_ amount of work and care newsparks required to thrive, and he knew his presence would be something of a hindrance now.

This was just as well, as the _Retribution_ was equipped with several dart ships, and he was feeling the same itch to race along home... though his home was in a different direction then the ship was heading.

Cybertron was not his home and held no pull on his spark, and so it was time to leave.

But as he turned away, he was surprised at the ping of melancholy that wound through his spark. It was then that he realized he would miss the quiet Autobot he'd been living with for the past few megacycles. He hesitated for a moment longer, but knew this separation was for the best, for all of them. At least he'd managed to repay some of the kindness Optimus had shown him, and for that he felt satisfied.

With that thought, he, too, put the unpleasantness of Uytis behind him and scampered off towards the launch bay.

 

* * *

 

The slurp and burps of machinery and tubes had become the whole of his life.

He'd fought the Quintesson all throughout, from the beginning of the stripping process until the moment they'd forced him into the support pod. He'd fought so hard he'd hurt himself and they'd finally justified the added expense to sedate him, and their sedation drugs (purchased in bulk from cheap but disreputable sources) gave him wild dreams.

The feeding tubes and waste tubes and monitoring equipment smothered the whole of his frame, and in his fever dreams Blast Off had imagined them as snakes and he'd chewed his ventilation tubes until his denta ached.

Sometimes he woke, but more often than not, he hid from his reality by retreating to the deeper places of his mind. The worst of his pain had eased some time ago. His wounds were healing over, but without his plating he remained perpetually cold and miserable. After awhile pain no longer intruded so much on the quiet place he kept retreating to, as close to the distant pulse of his gestalt link as possible.

His link to his Combaticon brothers had been sporadic at best, but Onslaught had been a rock throughout ... a mindscape island in a roaring sea of misery. It was to him that Blast Off had dreamt of swimming out to, to him that he'd clung to. The steady break of water on shore was to the tune of Onslaught's spark, and the rock of Onslaught's mental presence remained with him all throughout the worst of his captivity.

It was on that little island of rock where he sheltered and then slept away the long cycles.

Now the sounds of pounding breached his drowsing mind, crossing the misery ocean and intruding upon him. He was half in and half out of the ocean-water, the steady island rock of Onslaught still supporting him.

The sounds were relentless, tugging at him, coaxing him to return to the unpleasantness of his reality. He tried to think, tried to analyze his situation, tried to understand, but there was a wall he kept encountering, harsh and confusing. It happened whenever he tried to move beyond the realm of visual memory. Something was missing, something critically important, but his drugged mind couldn't grasp any further then that.

He would have fought the return, but his gestalt link felt so much stronger that he gave in and sat up. Something was happening. He knew he needed to wake up and he began to wade back out into the waves.

Back towards the feeling of his own spark beat.

Back to the shores of his own mind.

Surging back into the forefront of his mind, Blast Off slowly opened his optics, letting the stark light of the support room flood in. It took him a few kliks to reorient himself back in his frame. The sloshing of the viscous fluid around him was chilling, and the sense of being surrounded by snake-tubes returned, and he started chewing on his ventilation tubes again. He ground down viciously, then startled when he noticed the movement beyond the confines of his prison.

The pounding was increasing in volume. Large blurs were moving around outside his support pod. He couldn't make them out for the fluid swirling around him, and he tried to shake his helm to rattle free the cobwebs in his mind.

There was a sharp sound then - the sound of something cracking - and the light filtering through from the outside fractured into bright little beams. Reaching out with confused fingers, Blast Off tapped at the line of a crack and then blinked in bleary confusion as the single crack spread into lovely patterns. It was the splintering lines of yielding glass, and he traced their snowflake trails under his fingers.

Thoughts flirted with his memory banks, but couldn't breach the chasm that the Quints had carved into his mind. He couldn't think anymore, his words were stolen, but he didn't need words when enough of the fluid had drained past his shattered prison that he could finally focus on the faces beyond.

His optics widened as through the cracked glass, he saw the gleaming face plates of batcher-fragging _Brawl_.

Behind Brawl was Swindle, busy cutting through the far wall.

He was being rescued!

His brothers had come for him!

Then he recognized Onslaught, and his spark lurched wildly within him and he screamed around the tubes in his mouth. He could hear the stern sounds of Onslaught barking orders, and Blast Off lurched in his pod. A moment later and Onslaught's heavy servo landed on his chest, holding him still. Onslaught leaned over him, and though he couldn't understand a thing Onslaught was saying, he knew a command to _hold fragging still_ when he saw one.

He chewed on the tubes as he obeyed, one battered, bare servo reaching up to grasp at Onslaught's fingers. Both Onslaught and Brawl were feverishly removing the tubing, killing the tube-snakes that had haunted him in his dreams. He did his best to hold still while they tackled the tubing still running down his intakes. His optics darted back and forth, but Onslaught's electromagnetic fields were a constant reassurance.

Everything was well in hand, he could tell by the feel of his team leader, and it reassured him. Another voice called something, another voice he knew like his own sparkbeat and beyond Onslaught and Brawl he could see Vortex.

Blast Off was shivering for the cold now and then the last tube came out and he coughed and sputtered and then Brawl was reaching for him. Brawl hefted him up, holding him snug and grinning down at him and though he wasn't a hugger - neither of them were - there was still a damned good chance that he was being hugged to Brawl's chest right now, and if he was, it was the most wonderful feeling ever.

Brawl was saying something to him - probably a stupid joke - and Vortex called something and Onslaught squeezed his servo and gave him a little back thump. It was a very little one for the state of his bare strut, and it was good that he was covered in pod fluid because otherwise his band of brothers might have seen the gleam of optical fluid in his eyes.

The Combaticon team charged out through Swindle's makeshift exit, and shortly after there was a massive explosion. Blast Off was treated to a full on smash and grab as the Combaticons beat a hasty retreat while causing as much gratuitous property damage as possible on the way out.

They made it to the ship in record time, and with a minimum of shots fired (to Brawl's disappointment and Onslaught's relief) they escaped back into the safety of open space.

Nestled into one of the chairs on the bridge (he'd outright refused the medical alcove and since he seemed stable none of the other Combaticons were willing to force the issue) Blast Off found himself surrounded by his noisy, happy band of brothers.

Looking from brother to brother, Blast Off just settled back and listened to their boisterous voices. He couldn't understand them, but that was neither here nor there. Onslaught had already assured him he would be repaired when they arrived at wherever they were heading to, and he was content with that.

For the first time in a very long time, Blast Off's battered face lit up into a smile.

 

* * *

 

**THREE CYCLES LATER**

 

On the _Retribution's_ bridge, Thundercracker, Skywarp, Nautilator, and Thrust were standing vigilant.

The vid-screen remained clear of enemies, and the star field was a constant blur of motion. They were making excellent time, and thanks to Soundwave's carefully spliced recordings of the Maul captain's reports to their version of high command, no one was yet the wiser.

"Hey," Skywarp grinned over his shoulder. "Great timing. We are almost to the halfway point."

Perceptor was blinking awake, his optics focusing only lazily. He was taking his sweet, sweet time coming out of his long sleep, and that was fine. He had all the support the ship and his adopted trine could offer, and it was plenty. His electromagnetic fields reflected only sleepy curiosity, content as he was to be pressed so comfortably between dark wings.

Thundercracker glanced over at Skywarp. "Entering the intergalactic spaceway," he said, using the standard name for the massive communal shipping lanes used by most space-fairing species. It was an innocuous name, but the bottom line was that this was Galactic Council space, the backyard of the _Benign Intervention;_ Captain K'gard's beat.

Thankfully space was a big place and they were taking every precaution to keep their helms down. "Mechs are bugging me again," Skywarp grumbled, and Thundercracker nodded. He tapped a key and then repeated the announcement over the ship's intercom system. Giving in to the communal anxiety, he was still counted down the parsecs over the ship's internal systems, as per Pipe's original request.

Skywarp grinned at him. "Now I can hear them cheering again."

"We've got another mega-cycle left before we enter Cybertronian space," TC reminded him. "We aren't out of the woods just yet."

Skywarp blinked for the unfamiliar expression, though he got the gist of what Thunders was saying. He and Brawl (and especially the Junkions!) could be so confusing at times.

"Hey, don't jinx it," Nautilator cried. "I've got fifty credits down that we bust out of Mauler space without a scratch!"

Skywarp scoffed. "Is that all? I put all of Thunder's _savings_ into the pot."

"Just kidding," Skywarp said, laughing at Thundercracker's alarmed look. Really now, he had fun, but he wasn't _that_ mean... and then he added, "Pipes put the most down, but I think he and I are going to make out like bandits."

Thundercracker looked relieved at first, and then disappointed. "Wait, so there's a betting pool? Why didn't I hear about that?"

"Sorry Thunders, slipped my mind. Anyway, Swindle's taking bets," Skywarp explained, "He set up the pool and Nova Storm is handling it while he'd gone on the rescue mission. Probably too late to throw in now, but anyway, it's an awesome excuse for a party. Sunstreaker and his brother found what the Mauler's were using for a mess hall, and there's a celebration starting up soon."

Thundercracker flicked his wings agreeably, but mentioned he'd be staying on the bridge for the remainder. "You can have the Armada cycle shifts," Skywarp offered over his shoulder, to Thrust's delight.

"I think I will stay on the bridge, keep an optic on things. I just want to make it home in one piece," Thundercracker said, and the others could only agree.

It was a common sentiment, and down in one of the larger cargo bays, the little group of Sludge, Snarl, Slag were hanging on Thundercracker's every update. Pipes was particularly eager for the announcements, as he had put a bunch of credits down on the outcome. He was an optimist by nature and his bet reflected that. Now every update was making his smile grow wider. The future was showing every sign of being filled with both freedom and a subspace full of credits.

Life was good.

Even better for all the new friends he'd made, though a tiny frown crossed his face for the ones he'd lost. Tracks and Skids were particularly hurtful losses. Snarl must have noticed his shift in mood, because he pulled Pipes a little closer and nuzzled him with his muzzle.

"Bad things done and gone," Snarl murmured. He wasn't very good at it, but he still tried to comfort his little friend.

Pipes leaned back and accepted the words of comfort, and returned his attention to the chattering dusk-blue Datsun. Nestled together, Pipes and the Dynobots watched as Bluestreak fiddled with a larger vid-screen. Scavenger had cobbled it together for them, and Blue was busy attuning it to the bridge's vid-screen with Thundercracker's blessing.

"He said we might have an influx of visitors though," Bluestreak reminded them. "Everyone wants to see the stars, especially at night. If word gets out we have a second vid-screen set up, we can expect mechs to show up in droves, or at least the Air Commander thinks so. It makes sense though, the night thing, I mean. That's when the day catches up to you and you have time to think, and lots of mechs like to watch the stars, I can understand, after all we went to all this trouble to set this display up, and I can't wait to see how it works-"

"I'm sure it will be fine," Pipes said, "and Slag can send any annoying mechs packing, right Slag?"

"...Slag?"

A faint snore was his only answer, but that was good enough.

"There," Bluestreak said while stepping back to admire his handiwork, "Thundercracker says he'll positioned the bridge's vid-screen for a frontal view at furthest magnification, so that means we will be able to see Cybertron before we even reach the sector, which is great, because I really miss Cybertron right now and I can't wait until we are close enough. It reminds me of the time that-"

"Good job, Blue!" Pipes cheered, and in a semi-circle around him, the Dynobots thumped their tails in appreciation. Happy for the approval, Bluestreak blushed and his door-wings flicked for pleasure. He grinned at his new friends, and his smile remained, even as his word-waterfall continued on and on.

Meanwhile and back on the bridge, there was even more good news.

"Soundwave just sent the next all clear to the Maulers," Thrust reported, tapping at the keypad. "He says he just received confirmation they accepted his communique. Fraggers _still_ don't have a clue."

Thundercracker nodded. "Soundwave is worth his weight in credits," he murmured to himself.

"Heh," Skywarp laughed, "If our good fortune keeps up, I will be swimming in Soundwave's weight in credits!"

"I put some credits down on an incursion," Thrust finally admitted, "but if I lose the betting pool, it'll be the happiest loss ever."

Skywarp nuzzled the sleepy face that was resting on his shoulder. All the chatter was catching Perceptor's interest, hurrying him towards actual wakefulness. After a few moments, he started to squirm, looking down at the ground with interest.

Skywarp started fiddling with the straps while Thrust watched with interest. "Swindle's starting another betting pool over which one of the last two pops first," and he flicked a wing at Percy, indicating who he was going to be putting money on.

"You mechs seen the newest addition?" Skywarp asked, perking up.

Megatron had been very protective of his new little family, and other then a visit from Soundwave, no one had been allowed near his quarters. Apparently that policy hadn't changed much, as everyone answered in the negative, and Skywarp was already starting to offer suggestions on what they could do about it, much to Thundercracker's alarm.

"Where is Megs, anyway?" Thrust asked, glancing around the near-deserted bridge. "He's usually always here. Kinda surprised I haven't seem him at least once today to check in from time to time."

Thundercracker finished shooting warning looks in Skywarp's general direction for all the creative ideas he'd come up with to part Megatron from his newborn. It was worrying to him that Skywarp had clearly been pondering the topic already. Megatron was not one with whom to frag, but then again, this _was_ standard Skywarp fare.

Thundercracker flicked his wings at his too-playful trine mate and then smiled as he answered Thrust's question. "Megatron's in his quarters. Turns out one of the Mauler guards had a holo-vid projector for his room.”

Thrust looked confused, and flicked his wings in askance.

"I guess he mentioned taking Optimus to Hedonia at some point, or something to that effect, anyway," Thundercracker explained. "He said he'd be making good on that today."

 

* * *

 

Green and lavender palm trees were swaying in a gentle breeze, their soft rustle nearly drowned out by the curling splash of ocean waves.

The clouds above were fluffy-bright, gleaming in the emerald sky, and Megatron stood tall against the skyline. The holo-projector meant that even as Megatron was standing in the middle of the their quarters on the _Retribution_ , he was also ankle-deep in the soft white sand, standing on a beach on Hedonia.

A few paces away, Optimus was standing in the surf, marveling for the sight. His helm leaned back as he sucked in a deep breath - even the air felt cool and brisk and real! - and then he wavered on his pedes slightly.

Megatron stepped closer and slid a supporting arm around his waist and helped him settle down. The last few days had woven them tightly together, and Optimus had finally stopped feeling like he needed to push the other away, at least, not so much. It helped that his mobility was restored, now that his infant was tucked safely in his arms and not taking up space within his frame.

Emergence had been very difficult in his state of disrepair, and he was still recovering.

But right now, nothing could put a damper on Optimus' good mood. Settling down into the soft sand, Optimus smiled up at Megatron, and made a gesture for _this was an excellent idea_ , and then it was Megatron's turn to smile.

Their infant chirped and cooed and Optimus checked her fuel levels - full to the brim - and then settled back to enjoy Hedonia's spectacular sunset. He was sitting at the edge of the ocean waves and the experience felt so real ... so authentic that he could _feel_ the cool ocean waves lapping at his pedes.

Delightful little breezes ticked his frame and he pulled in another deep breath. The sounds and smells and breezes soothed his spark and he laid down on his back on the warm, warm sand. He stretched his arms above him and his servos dug playful furrows in the soft sand, and once again he marveled for the feel of grains between his fingers.

Rolling over to his front, Optimus settled their infant, as of yet unnamed, next to him in the sand. He nestled her within the safe confines of a soft blanket, the clever holo device incorporating the softness as if it were a hollow of bright white sand. Now she, too, was peering upwards at the sky, cooing softly. Tiny fingers reached up, trying to touch the clouds, and her bright red optics focused with soft little whirs.

There was a _whump_ as Megatron settled down next to him.

Reaching out, Megatron took the opportunity on offer and rubbed along Optimus' back strut, to his delight. Dipping his fingers in and manipulating the aching cables and circuitry there, Megatron worked his way down to the small of Optimus' back, still sore from bearing so much weight without the support of proper plating. He electrified his fingers and went to work and Optimus moaned and relaxed, stretching out on his front in the sand.

Legs splayed, Optimus just laid there and relished the pleasing touch.

Fortunately, his back was on the mend now that the extra weight had been taken off his spinal strut, and it wasn't long before tense gears and cables unknitted and the tension there eased entirely. Megatron kept his servos busy until much of the soreness eased, and then he lowered his servos and begin to rub the tight little aft below.

Optimus quirked an eyebrow ridge and glanced over his shoulder, meeting a set of very playful red optics. _What are you doing back there?_   Optimus gestured, and it was obvious he was trying to keep a smile off his own face plates. He pointed at their infant and made a motion for _probably shouldn't_.

They were getting better at the charades thing, though Megatron was not above taking advantage when it suited him. Thus he just blinked at Optimus, feigning confusion. He shrugged playfully at the gestures, shaking his helm and mimed back _no idea what you mean_ … and squeezed said aft again.

He pulled the other closer, but reminded himself to be careful. In the past he had greatly enjoyed dominating his companions (fortunately Starscream had shared his enjoyment of rough play) and wrestling around with them always had his engine running hot.

But Optimus was very sensitive to his stripped state, and wrestling around with a fully armored partner wasn’t going to be appreciated here. Now that Optimus was investing more trust in him, now that he had stopped pushing him away, Megatron was trying to be careful to respect his boundaries a little more than he normally would.

Apparently it was the exact correct response, because Optimus huffed softly in contentment. In matters of trust, they were off to a good start. Another sigh of contentment and then it was Optimus' servo that snuck a little squeeze.

Pleased for that bold touch, Megatron engaged, pressing closer and murmuring to his mate sub-vocally, his favorite words of poetry, though he knew his mate didn’t understand him. It didn't matter ... only the tone mattered ... and his made it very clear what he desired. He mouthed a gentle trail down Optimus' neck cables, and was rewarded with a soft rumble of encouragement.

He slid around and under, rolling them until Optimus was resting across his front, and with a snick his panel opened. He brushed his lips against the hollow of Optimus' neck and chin, and then took his mouth in a long and gentle kiss.

Hedonia's version of fireflies were making their appearance now, the slowly darkening beach filling with flickering little lights.

“We made it,” Megatron whispered as he pulled back, turning his attentions on a sensitive blue audial.

Optimus relaxed against him, but couldn’t help but flinch, worried for which panel had opened. Thanks to the Quintesson fiddling with his coding and activating carrier-protocols, he knew he was receptive again. All he would need to be sparked up again would be a decent spiking, and it wasn't something he was going to tolerate.

Thankfully, Megatron was well aware. Optimus relaxed when the intimate port that brushed against his was not equipped for the task, though every bit as sensuous.

Optimus rumbled, pleased. He gave in to the desire that was winding through him, warming his frame and pooling in his array. The warm waves lapped over them as the sunlight faded to dusk. In the dimming light they explored each other's frames with hands and mouths and tangled limbs. The warm, dark metal pressed against him was intimately familiar now, and his fingers traced over the evidence of their shared fates.

 _We made it,_ Optimus thought. 

Not in words, no, but the concept was still there, tangled up in relief and joy. Ghosting over Optimus' frame with his fingers, Megatron claimed his lip plating again and teasing his glossa back in. Breathing each other’s ventilations, Optimus pulled back with a gasp when Megatron's fingers traced over his sensitive slit and dipped inside, stroking his sensors and lighting a fire inside him.

Optimus rumbled his pleasure into those hungry intakes. Megatron wrapped his arms around Optimus' hips, supporting the much smaller frame, sharing his joyful desire through the pulse of his electromagnetic fields. Optimus was doing much the same, their fields entwining around each other, both powerful, nether holding anything back.

Then Optimus pulled back, sitting up and kissing down, down, nibbling a trail down Megatron's dark and trembling frame. Gripping hold of Optimus, Megatron hissed softly in anticipation, and only barely suppressed the urge to grab at Optimus' helm. There were few things he loved more then a warm, wet mouth on him, but Optimus wasn't having any of that.

With a playful rumble, Optimus warned his mate to _behave_ himself, and once again Megatron found himself surrendering to his old enemy with a playful grin.

Letting Optimus coax his legs wider apart, Megatron was soon fully exposed, his anterior node pulsing. It was aching for attention, and his valve was warm and wet and open. A little trickle of lubricant escaped and then he dragged his fingers through the soft sand with a groan as Optimus' lips enclosed over his valve, lathing over his rim and then dipping inside.

Long moments passed with Megatron only barely stifling his wanton cries as Optimus plunged his glossa warm and deep. His hips danced and and his fingers clenched over Optimus' frame. His electromagnetic fields pulsed with his pleasure, his engine surging and hiccuping.

Optimus' own frame was aching now. His spark was pulsing within him. His nodes offered up little sparks of building charge. His mouth left Megatron's nub then and Megatron pulled him back up, shaking with charge.

Taking back a bit of control, Megatron gripped Optimus by his hips and rubbed his throbbing valve against Optimus' hyper-sensitive mesh. The sounds of their pleasure were delightfully wet, and they shared a moan as he ground down against him. Their anterior nodes snapped charge back and forth between them, building ever higher, flickering bright and hot like a running fire between them.

Megatron dug his heavy pedes into the glittering sand for traction, grinding up hard and fast, with Optimus matching his every thrust. The warm ocean waves splashed over them, their biolighting bright and contrasting, glinting off the last shimmer of sunset still reflecting off the ocean waves.

Optimus’ overload tore through him like lightening and Megatron followed after, the shimmer of dusky-blue waves lapping over their frames.

The water was reflecting the moonlight now, the deep blues muted for the bio-shine of their heaving, satiated frames. They laid together for a long time after, watching as the picture-perfect stars of Hedonia's night sky began to twinkle above them.

"That one is Cybertron," Megatron pointed, and Optimus nodded, patting the spot above his spark, showing he understood what Megatron was saying.

 _Home_.

There were other familiar lights in the night sky, and they took turns pointing them out, occasionally stealing a kiss back and forth between them.

Nestled between them, oblivious of the hardships and triumphs of her sire and carrier, the newborn sparkling chirped happily. Enchanted, she waved a tiny servo up at the largest of three luminous moons.

 

finis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap!
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone that followed along! I started this to get better at my writing, and I feel I have made some progress. I am continually updating all of my stories for editing practice, but I keep the originals saved on my computer. I went back recently and damn, seeing the difference between then and now makes all the writer's block and late nights scowling at my screen with [ this expression ](https://ifunny.co/fun/gReeeghA3?gallery=tag&query=kuzco) worth it. :D
> 
> That, and all the comments and encouragement, and constructive criticism. This is the best fandom, bar none, and thank you guys for being so awesome! :D :D :D
> 
> There is a sequel in the works, it will be handled a little differently though. This project was outlined up the wazoo and back, for the sequel I am going to open up a blank page and see where it takes me. Shouldn't be as long, and I am in the process of writing the last chapter (I always do this so I have a target to hit :D) so I should start posting that in a few months, if all goes well.
> 
> Again, thanks everybody! :D :D :D


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